Words can spit, words can shout, words can make you doubt,
Violence makes no sound, violence is hidden, violence is guilt ridden,
Friends turn enemies, lovers turn haters, but no one notices.
She takes a knife, “worthless” she describes herself,
Taking a breath she places it on her wrist, silence has no haters.
She presses deep and blood runs clear,
Tears escape but she has no fear,
Her breathe becomes ragged, she wipes back her tears.
Those friends never noticed, never blind enough to see,
She was desperate, but lonely she was to be.
As blood ran down her arm, she felt satisfied and calm,
She may sound broken, crumpled and torn,
An unknown name dried, haunted and worn.
But as she sits in the cold wooden room,
She’s not alone.
Surrounded by others feeling the same,
But those that haunted her, crept into her dreams,
Sat unaware of the turmoil caused.
She sit’s there,
Broken, waiting for them to be consumed by remorse.
