She sits on her bed, crying and staring at her box of razor blades. She's not the girl everyone thinks she is. No one knows the girl behind that closes door, her music played loud so no one can hear her cries. No one cares anymore, the voices inside her head whisper. No one would ever notice you were gone, and even if they did, they wouldn't care. You're useless and worthless, they say. No one cares. She's as invisible as the ghost that haunt these halls. She's nothing here.. And she's nothing there. She picks up one blade and plays with it in her hand. She looks at it, sets it on her wrist, pushes down and pulls it, breaking her flesh. She watches as the blood trickles down her wrist and onto the bed sheets. She picks the blade up again, sets it on her wrist and repeats the process again and again until she is satisfied with the artwork that has been done. To others, this is noto artwork, but damage. Damage that needs to be dealt with. She puts her blades away, crawls into her bed and cries herself to sleep. She didn't want to be here anymore. The depression eats at her. Everything is her enemy. Her own thoughts bite and nip at her once outgoing ego. She used to be a happy little girl.. What happened to that little girl that had no cares or worries in the world? The little girl who was always happy. Where did that innocent, happy little girl go?
