she wrote her life out on her hands.

she wrote her life out on her hands,

and i watched her.

watched her live, love, suffer, feel.

unable to help,

i sat there mute.

waiting.

watching.

i saw her grow up.

i saw her fall in love,

getting her heart broken,

when he forgot her.

she cried,

etching her tears into her skin

with the help of a razor blade

stolen from target.

her hands,

not marred by scars,

tell her story,

through the reminders,

and insults, she writes to herself.

through her scars,

on the one place on her body

she likes,

and they share her pain

with the world.

screaming for release

until they stop.

until she uses her hands,

and their stories,

to kill herself.