Poem two

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She picks up the silver metal blade,

Runs it across the paleness of her wrist.

Blood fills the mouth of the wound,

One used to be enough,

But now it's different.

Another slice and then a few more.

Her guilty pleasure,

Blood drips to the floor.

The damage is done.

Once to her heart,

Now to her skin.

The scars on her heart,

Made visible to the human eye.

With out her self damage,

No one could realize how much she hurts.

They don't care enough to look,

She doesn't hide enough to be left unnoticed,

But why does she hurt so?

No one knows other than she.

She may not live with her heart on her sleeve,

But underneath them she shows it all.

Her wrists felt the pain she leaves in her heart.

Bipolar kills,

A cancer of the mind,

Drugs can only help so much,

She doesn't want to end up like Daddy Dearest,

Hanging from the ceiling,

No chance to turn back.

She doesn't want to be some statistical addition,

Not another reason for some new psych book edition.

Wants genetics to stop detrimenting her thoughts.

She hates herself, she knows this much.

Was it her fault for her father's suicide?

One more slice.

She falls to the floor,

Too much blood disperses.

She dies, herself left, a gentle disaster.

Poetry from a bipolar teenagerWhere stories live. Discover now