I'm not as strong as everyone thinks I am,*
But it's not like anyone gives a ****.
I have a constant reminder of my depression.
It rests on my wrist in a line shaped fashion.
It was somehow an accident, my mother believes.
Little does she know that it was truly my intention.

Everytime I'm out in public I pinch myself only wishing,
I would've cut deeper, maybe just an inch further.
Would I somehow keep breathing, would I be missed?
Maybe for a little while, but I doubt it would've sticked.
No one ever realises the pain until it's taken something away.