Staring blankly ahead,
A barely covered figure,
Finger's trace red scars,
Once bleeding,
Remembering the gentle ease,
A blade opening the doors of her hate.
The hate of her body.
The hate of herself.
Open wounds, starting to heal.
A thin film of skin,
keeping the blood from emptying.
No one knows the way she feels,
Not until they lift her sleeves.
And even if they do they don't know.
Red and purple gashes,
Line her inner arm.
She doesn't care,
Not anymore...
