The boy with the scarsA Poem by LegolasThe boy with the scars found relief in nothing. The pain stayed with him like a terminal disease, no matter where he went or what he did. He was tired of the constant battle. Gripping the handle with white knuckles, tears streaming from his eyes, his brain cloudy with thoughts, he touched the blade to his arm. Slowly he sliced down through the flesh, blood running down his arm onto the floor, like a red river, carrying away the pain. The emotional pain seemed to fade, only to be replaced with the physical hurt. To give himself the relief, even if only for seconds, it was worth it. No one knew. No one noticed. He didn't want people to know. He didn't want people to notice. The boy. The scars. Both, invisible to the world. Both, no one caring about. The boy was me. The boy is me. I am the boy with the scars.
© 2012 LegolasFeatured Review
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