That little girl who used to laugh
and be satisfied with a soft fluffy toy,
will rather play with a sharp blade now
and show everyone a genuine smile    

As genuine as a rose made out of tissue,
that is what the girl is trying to display.    
The inside of her still torn apart and broken,
but no one seems to realise anything
                                                        
Everyone is convince that she is weird and funny
But after night falls and she, alone in her room,
will cry for eternity as a blade glides
across her wrist, drops of blood trickling down
                                    
No one can hear her screams for help,
and everyone will continue to think she's alright
But I know she is not and she will never be
For that little girl who became like that, is me