the scars on my wrists paint a picture of pain
drawn in a time when i was clearly insane
i thought that my body was a canvas of self harm
my razor blade became the perfect tool for expression
red was my favourite colour back then
it was the colour of crimson red
the thought of it leaving my body by the litre gave me such a rush
until the day they found me bleeding to death and decided to lock me up
the scars on my wrist paint a picture of someone who did not feel good enough