Little cut here.
A little cut there.
No one will see.
No one will care.
Words on my arms.
Stories on my legs.
Pain in my tears.
Death in my heart.
Cuts all over.
A smile on my face.
Permanently so no more pain is brought to you by me.
I'll ask you, "Am I pretty yet?"
As tears and blood streak my face.
They call me a sinner.
They call me a whore.
But god forbid you ever had to walk a mile in my shoes.
I wrote this letter to you to ask....does this smile make me pretty yet?
