Who is this girl? She is not me. She seems happy today, smiling and laughing. Distracted from the hurt.
Why do I do this, why am I happy?
Why, then, am I sad?
I am not sad. I am not happy.
I do not feel, I do know now how to. My blade teaches me.
Make me smile, I’ll hurt.
Make me hurt, I’ll make you hurt.
Close your eyes.
The blood is a blanket, the smile is a lie, the scrs are what they are, with fear and love entwined within a casket of false hope and unrealistic dreams.
Hanging on. Clinging on. Cover them, hide them.
They’re worthless and stupid, ugly and pathetic.
Much like myself, I have to admit.
Much like the lies I want to believe,
Much like the lie I want to live.