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Maybe I like the pain
I cause myself, the
scars left behind are what
bother me.
My soul is what someone
would call "desolation"
I'm empty but living
with emotions that really
mean nothing.
Sometimes I don't know
what to do with all this
gloom.
At times I get so tired
of not feeling anything and the
only way to feel is to cut.
She's holding so much inside,
feeling like a broken porcelain doll
every time she walks in the
halls she feels like she's forgotten how to breath, walking slowly trying to take it all in and feel better, sitting alone randomly crying for no reason not knowing why she's been so emotional.
I use to tell myself that my body was a canvas.
I would leave marks,
And when I was done I'd feel release.

My body is paper with writing on it
I've tried erasing for months but
the writing is still there.
No matter how hard I try
to erase i'm stuck with stories
I don't want to remember.

— The End —