I build my walls up high so that I can hide behind them and hopefully you can never reach inside again. These walls of mine are thick and strong unlike my skin, which is weak and thin. Skin that is so easily torn apart. Covered from top to bottom with marks of many. A collection of cuts, bruises, burns, and scars. As I start to drag the welcoming and comforting blade; burning flame across my already tainted body I will realize that I'm not a canvas made for this type of art, nor am I cat with nine lives. Each mark brings me one breath; step closer to my very last. Those lovely forms of art, do you see them? Yeah, the ones that are dressing my body with pink lines. Every single one of them was a different failed attempt to cry for help.  One line alone is equal to that of a thousand battles that they win and I lose. Nobody cares about how much pain that I am in, and that's fine because I don't care either. I will eventually meet my end and leave this cruel world in vain.