Bound in red, wrapped in gauze she waits patiently

hating the applause of falling tears the pity

which leaks from their eyes when in their mind they applaud

and say what a great performance to bad you failed

but hey here is the attention we are sure you wanted.

And she sits and waits, in the night no where else seemed fitting,

and she waits and waits drip by drip

and she hopes maybe she can get away with it and no one will know.

No one will look on her with pity and disgust and say why do that to your pretty skin.

And she picks at her shoulder, old cuts linger,

and the blood starts warms and turns cold as it lingers sticky and gross and drying to cake and crack

and bleed again. And she picks at her arms with a razor instead

and watches as this blood flows into the sink.

And she picks at her brow and thins them out.

But this pain is fine because it makes you beautiful,

if that is the case than if you think scars are beautiful then should the be alright then,

are you normal then? Are you just like everyone else?

And she sits and she pities herself

and she curses the fools who pity her and curses herself and resumes her picking.

And she lingers, stiffening and completes the mask only to crack back open as she steps from the room.