I slide the blade
Along my wrist one more time.
This is suppose to take away the pain,
But it just adds to it.

Blood trickles along my flesh
My eyes are red shot,
All dried up,
containing no more tears.

My session is now over,
I begin the fix myself up.
I paint a black cross onto my wrist,
As an attempt to cover up the damage I have done.

Long sleeves are now all I wear,
They help keep my secret locked away.
No one can find out,
they will only judge.

I am not suppose to have this struggle,
I am the happy girl, who loves life.
But underneath I am insecure,
and weak.

Really I am ugly and worthless,
and stupid and unloved.
But I am not suppose to be,
So I am not.

Yet, I draw my black cross every night.