i cut. alot. all over my body. i tell people that i get in four-wheeler accidents and get cat scratches. i make an art out of it. you cannot see me underneath the scars that haunt my body like lost loves, lost memories of the past. i am smothered underneath my art, i cannot and do not want to escape from this hell i have created. i am not satisfied until i see the blood rush to the surface and spill over my pale skin. only then can i smile. then the smile is gone until the next time. there will always be a next time. my scars protect me. i will never die. never. all my loves have left, yet i will always be here. alone. deadly. waiting. waiting to kill. waiting to kill again.
2006-11-18
12:53:52
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8 answers
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asked by
Anonymous
in
Psychology