She looks out through the window
Into the falling snow
And wishes she could remember clearer
Those days from long ago.
The days she’d sip hot cocoa
And sit upon her bed
Dreaming of the years to come
The years that she should dread.
And if I could, I’d tell her
To slow down and take her time
Before her loved ones left her
And before she cut those lines.
Though it may be fun to dream of
The future you may have
You never think of cuts and scars
And losing those you had.
My advice to all those young ones
Who dream of future days
Is to slow down and count the seconds
While you still have time to play.

She watches all the people
As she sits upon the shelf
Choosing other pretty girls
Ones not like herself
People see the cracks
And the tears upon her dress
They walk right by and leave her
Much to her distress
All they see are her problems
And once these are all fixed
She’ll be the prettiest one of all
If only she is fixed

At thirteen I lost the greatest woman in my life. My grandmother was the strongest woman I knew.
That was when I started creating art with razors on my wrists and my thighs, thinking about how she'd hate me if she saw how weak I was when she was so strong.

At fifteen my uncle was diagnosed with stage IV esophagus cancer. It felt like I was falling when standing still. Three months later he was gone.

At sixteen I had a bad feeling at school. Something was wrong and I could feel it. They said I was crazy, that everything was fine. The night prior my uncle ended his life.
The art with the razors became more frequent.

At eighteen I was in a verbally abusive relationship and felt trapped. I met my best friend, and she saved me. She helped me free myself from him.

At nineteen I lost two friends two weeks apart to car accidents. It felt like everything was spinning and I was screaming and nobody could hear me. But nobody came, because nobody saw I was dying inside.

At twenty a person in my town died in a hiking accident. The whole town came together to mourn the loss of an amazing person.

I'm putting down my razors.
The art must stop.
If I continue, the art will be the death of me.
So I write.