You excuse yourself from the party
And sneak off to the second floor
You hide out in your bedroom
And double-lock the door

The taste of birthday cake still lingers
That stupid song rings in your ears
Downstairs your guests are having fun
Though their host is not how she appears

You reach underneath your bed
And grab a box that’s made from tin
Shaking hands quickly remove
The sharp instruments held within

The tools of a sacred ceremony
That follows the emotional drain
The ****** ritual of release
The catharsis brought by pain

You grab the hem of your skirt
And raise it up past your waist
You stare down at battered legs
Milky white flesh you’ve defaced

A terrain map of your body
A reminder of who you are
Some may prefer a tattoo
But nothing lasts like a scar

Each memory is a torturous cell
Trapping you in an inescapable past
The pain and suffering that never ended
And the happiness that wouldn’t last

Ignorance may be bliss for some
But it comes with a price too steep
So relive those nights in your father’s bed
When he made you cry yourself to sleep

Soon you’ll make your way downstairs
And blend in seamlessly with the crowd
That fabricated air of optimism
Is the mask that acts as your shroud

A smile, a laugh or a smirk
False gestures you convey
You find it so easy to lose yourself
Inside the character you portray

Reality is too difficult for some
The real Sarah they can never know
You only do this for their own good
So let’s get on with the show