It's a blade. It's a razor sharp blade. A razor sharp blade that I have hidden in my room. A hidden razor sharp blade that is only to be found by me. It's my hidden razor sharp blade that is to only be used by me. I take that razor sharp hidden blade and unwrap it from the paper. I use it; I slice open my soft smooth skin. Without a doubt I cut deeper and deeper. I think of all the horrid things that have been said to me. and the pain is numb. The blood trickles beneath my skin.Tags: Cut, Cutt, Knife, Blood, Blade, Sadness, Depression
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Each scar tells a story. The story of my life and of the pain. Every scar has a story. A single wound in the heart. Each scar tells of my struggles. A sroty of my agony. They tell a story of how I survived each day carrying my brusies around just trying to survive. Every scar tells a story of how I was used. Of how I was battered and bruised.Tags: Hurt, Cutt, Broke, Broken
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