Blades of grass laying in the bottom of a bin underneath the trash of yesterday's sorrows. The grass is silver and there isn't enough time to register that this isn't really grass... These are blades from my past and present and grim future. Blades that slice open my left arm and my right leg. The wind blows my right arm to make the grass blades dance across my skin. It cuts so deeply that my need to feel something, turns into the need to feel nothing. Physical pain was the least of my worries. The emotional pain was worse than any bruise I got from my family. The fact that leaving them, the people who torched my childhood, hurt worse than actually loving them.