How could we trust the monster that slit her wrists?
Was it for fun, or was there an issue noone saw?
She cut deep.
Each line along her arm telling another story.
Each raised red bump marking its individuality and conformity all at once.
The pain, need, hope, and despair in one cut and many.
Did anyone help this creature?
Pull her aside?
Relate?
Or was she let go?
Noone in the world giving her the light of day.
Not a single person knows but her.
So pull her in and listen close.
Don't let her add anymore of those sickening red lines to her arm.
Don't be the bystander looking on.
Help her, free her.
Teach her to love each day.
Who knows.
One day she may do great things.
But if you don't help her, how will we see what great things she can create?
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This is a poem I wrote when I was in a rough patch in my life. It's not the best.
