Walking past a mirror is painful
Looking into the mirror is a death sentence.

Wrist stained red from trickling crimson beads
"F-A-T" carved into your thighs with a symphony of other gashes.

Words of hate flow with the breath of every bully
Trying to get you to buckle and crack under the pressure.

Lock your door and muffle your screams
the end is year, yet this is just the beginning.

Longing closure you butcher your wrist;
with lacerations for every despicable word.

You paint your nails, and curl your hair.
You write a note and grab a belt.

You blow a kiss and remove the chair.
Dangling within mid air.