Blades split my wrists.
Pills fill my stomach.
Fourteen years young yearning for eternal rest.
But why must these thoughts consume my mind in class? At home?
Deathly shadows hold hands; wrapping around craniums boney crown, through eyes, finger tips and toes. Sealed from mouths, sound never escapes thy lips. In death, and in life. For blades will always speak a written language on arms and thighs that can never be told through expression of word.