Cuts

I wrote this thinking about my friends who have been threw awful things, I love them so much.

The scars on her hips and the marks on her lips. The makeup she wears to feel pretty, instead makes her feel pity for herself. The razor blade in her closet is her best friend as she pulls a spade of hearts from the draw. People stare at the marks on her, but they don't know she glares at herself in the mirror daily, wondering why she isn't good enough.
One cut, two cuts, three cuts more, do you know what goes on behind her door?
One cut, two cuts, three cuts more, do you know what she's good for?
She is an artist of sorts but her pencil is no stencil, but a blade, and her canvas is her wrist. The art collection grows bigger everyday with an inspection of how deep each one goes.
One cut, two cuts, three cuts more, do you know if she's done for?
One cut, two cuts, three cuts more, it's not her fault she's so poor.
She causes self harm on her arm not for fun, but to feel pain from her brain. She can't feel emotions, they are lost in her oceans never to be found like Atlantis. She can't get a job without being insulted, so she is excluded making her struggle with money and have no one to come home to too call her honey.
One cut, two cuts, three cuts more, she wonders if one day she will be adored,
One cut, two cuts, three cuts more, it's sad she has to take part in societies war.
Her scars look like bars as if she was in a cell, a living hell is what her life turned into after being depressed. So she turned to a razor, a blade as sharp as a spade that glides across her skin and binds her mind together. She became obsessed as it let her feel something while she was depressed. Society shames her and blames her for how she acts when they don't know how the blow to her heart she took and her whole world shook.
One cut, two cuts, three cuts more, she hopes one day she will finally soar.
One cut, two cuts, three cuts more, maybe she will realize she isn't a bore.
Her wings were painted beautifully until they were tainted, she's stuck to the ground in this much as a storm rolls by wishing she could fly once again. She cuts again, no matter how bad the pain she feels a gain of emotion upon the commotion that was thrusted onto her. People avoid her when she looks annoyed but she is actually destroyed from a tragedy that she anxiously waits to forget.
One cut, two cuts, three cuts more, can't you see she doesn't care anymore?
One cut, two cuts, three cuts more, she just wants to feel more.
Her razor is rusty and all dusty after all the times she used it. She wants something more, just a friend to make her happy, isn't that what they're for? She'd put her razor away as her gaze went to her mirror, she stared at her marks where it looked like lines of darts had been thrown and she smiled. She realized societies realities are foolish, they made her gloomish from the shaming and the blaming get really bad; it was to the point she used a method that made her viewpoint dark.
One cut, two cuts, three cuts more, she finally put her razor down.
One cut, two cuts, three cuts more, she will be happy for furthermore.

Author's Note

please ignore my awful formatting skills, this is from the heart and I would like feedback on how it was. :0

Reviews

[TforTall]

Awesome poem! Iike the cadence and the repetition of line, it really adds emotion.