Why is it I'm different?
Why is it i'm treated this way?
The harsh words,
the violence.
Why?
It seems the only way out is to grab a sharp blade,
and draw.
A tragic picture.
On my wrist.
Not just a picture,
But a story.
A story of hope,
story of life,Story of sadness...
A picture, bright red with the color ofblood.
The red drops falling from my arm, staining the floor as the puddle grows...
The picture will grow, getting deeper and deeper...
Until I no longer live.
Until the story is left unfinished...
All because of you.
The picture shows a word,
Only one...
A word with a huge meaning,
The picture,
scarred into the no longer living flesh...
Shows something I never had,
But always wanted....
"Hope".