The
tears fall slowly down her face, washing the make up away as she
sit as her bed staring at the wall. Reaching for the scissors.
Griping it tightly in her small hand, nuckles white. She knows
it's wrong. Despite what right she opens up the scissors.
glids it smoothly across her fair skin. Repeat, repeat, repeat.
It turns red, blood fills the cuts.
Tears are falling faster. She sniffs. She wonders, why me? She
wonders what's wrong with her. Why people don't like her.
Why do people pierce her heart with sharp, painful words?
Gently, she tucks the weapon back under her pillow. She stares
are her arm. Traces her fingers along the scars, and the new
cuts. Looking up, she pulls down her sleaves, wipes her face
clean of tears, puts a smile on her face, and goes out.
She's strong. The definition of
strong.