thats the thing about them they are so small hardly anything to complain about but at the same time so painful bright vibrant blood holding the secrets of our beings spills carelessly no one can see it there is no scar left behind to prove anything only the dread remains fear every time you turn a page insignificant yet we still grant it a bandaid we recognize its legitimacy because these small trivial cuts are the ones that get to us that continue to eat away at  us even after the self pity you expect to be hurt by the sticks and stones but in the end its the paper on which we place our words.* Thats what gets you in the end