She is a survivor, a fighter.
She has struggled through many battles.
From the monstrosity of depression,
To the savages of low self esteem,
She has risen to the top.
She is more scarred than she appears.
Her razor used to be a dear friend
That bled her problems dry.
Her pills were her sustenance,
Feeding her a deceptive spirit.
Her room was her secrets' protector,
Keeping her carved wrist private and her pills unknown.
She was a girl astray in a vast world filled with darkness.
She saw no promise,
No love or optimism.
She was cloaked in shadows of her own torment.
She could only live in arcane despair as she search for happiness.
She drew her maps on her wrist.
Her counselor was her pills directing her toward escape.
She had no hope.
She had no love.
Only dripping blood, stinging wrist, and loving pills.
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Feminism, Politics, and Fun
PoetryA collection of poems relating to anything and everything.
