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May 2013
In the morning she stumbles out of bed,
Gets ready for the day with a brain full of dread.
Sixteen hours of torture and hatred and malice
And then, back to bed where it fades into blackness.

She covers her scars with pants and a sweater.
She wishes that somehow her life could get better.
She walks out of the door with her head down low.
Her β€œfriends” pass her by without a hello.

At lunch (twelve hours left) she sit quietly and pretends
she doesn't exist, she does her best to simply blend.
She's home (eight more hours), still working through the stress
of another day gone, and her life's still a mess.

Homework, then dinner and being brave
for her family.  She smiles while hoping for the grave.
"Four more hours, and then I can sleep."
That's what she thinks when she's trying not to weep.

With one hour left, she pulls out the blade
Her spirit is broken.  Her skin is frayed.
As tears mix with blood, sleep doesn't come.
One hour turns to three or four and then some.

The sleepless night turns to morning, and it's time to start again.
Sixteen more hours of hopelessness filling her head.
β€œOne more day,” she whispers to herself.
She does it every morning, puts her self-hatred on the shelf.

She goes through the cycle, still wishing for dying
but makes it through fifteen hours without even crying.
Until one day, she's numb with nothing to feel.
It's like watching a movie.  It's all so unreal.

Now, she cuts not in sadness, worry, or strife.
She cuts to bring feeling back into her life.
She paints scars on her skin like an artist at work.
She welcomes the pain, like a friend, with a smirk.

Death is not her goal, but would she really care
if one day she was finally broken beyond repair?
Written by
Jill Stinehart
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