Blade
I found the razor
In the bathroom closet.
It probably belonged to my father,
But I could tell by the way it was collecting dust
That it hadn't been used in a while.
I picked it up
And held it gingerly in my hands.
I had heard stories
About people who hurt themselves
On purpose,
But I never would think
That I would be one of them.
I sat in my bed
After my parents and sister were fast asleep,
And I decided whether I should do it or not.
The words
Slut,
Whore,
And tramp
Rang in my head,
Like every time someone said something,
They were telling me to do it.
To put the blade to my wrist,
And let scarlet blood
Pour out.
Blood is precious,
So are tears.
They shouldn't be wasted
On people so ignorant.
But ignorance is bliss,
Right?
What they didn't know,
They couldn't feel guilty of.
But I wanted them all to know.
So without anymore thinking
I raised the blade to my wrist,
And I wrote all of the hate on my arms
Leaving only scars as evidence.
YOU ARE READING
Impulse
Teen FictionSummary: A girl wakes up in a mental institution, her wrists are bandaged and she can't remember why she's there. But when the memories start to flood back, she has to relive every horrible and vivid memory of how she got to where she is now, so she...
