Years and years ago,
when I was but your age
I had a friend
who hated herself
more than anyone else
ever could
she needed no nemesis,
arch or otherwise
cause she was her own villain
and a flood of tears
couldn't wash away her evil
instead she tried to bleed them out
cutting scars on her arm
hoping the right drop of blood
would purge her of the poisons
yet soon her arm grew tired
of the constant harassment
she was too scared to stop
to live with the bad thoughts
everyday and night,
sitting on her windowsill
she contemplated the height
would it be enough to cause her end
of would only injuries follow,
injuries she'd have to explain
she didn't jump that day,
not because life was suddenly worth living
or because she's learned happyness
it was due to her inability
to express the sadness inside
that she stayed alive
I'm very good friends with her now
she'll twist my arm
and tell me she's beautiful
and I'll agree
cause that girl was no friend,
she was me.