The Cuts Inside: The truth of life
I sit in the rain. The world doesn't notice. It's the good thing about being in the middle of nowhere. Tears slide down my cheeks, the sky seeming to agree with my mood, our tears mixing until there's no way to distinguish which tears are whose. The cuts not on my wrists seem to taunt me- you're too afraid to get your emotions out by a razor- the clear wrists seem to say; yet I argue back. I'm nothing more than a shell. There's nothing to cut. I'm not capable of being hurt anymore. These cuts can't exist when there's no blood left to bleed, no skin left to cut, no heart left to break. There are too many lacerations inside, the mind knows. A single outer cut would cause me to fall to ribbons on the ground. These uncut wrists taunt the mind. Though there's nothing left to taunt. The taunts sink through the lacerations making the heart lace. The lacy heart is nothing but tears and slices. These cuts are not there. The cuts can't be hidden from those who know me. These cuts you see. These slices, these cuts, these cuts inside
