PrettyThin

                Yellow stripes, black lines, all blending, all becoming one. They sting, these lines, quickly turning red, disguising what has been there all along. these lines, red , yellow, black, all blending into one—in the end it doesn’t matter, they’re all the same. they sketch her arms and outline all her faults. Not forgiving, they painfully etch across her skin, as quickly as they came, they’re swiftly covered up. All she wants is to be beautiful; all she wants is to be loved.
                But it’s too late, she’s gone to the blade, the red fills her emptiness with something, which to her seems better than nothing. She hates this feeling, empty, alone, diseased. Hate, that’s all she begins to feel, but not towards others, only towards herself. The hate leaves, but the emptiness remains, always there, always reminding her. she quickly begins to need the red. What began as an escape has now become her only prison. It’s become a part of her, it doesn’t matter that she’s managed to stay away for so long for, in the end she always returns, to her one relieve-her one true love.
                The only thing that makes her fell alive, and calms the emptiness inside of her. She grabs the blade, it fits so perfectly in her palms, wow-she had forgotten the feeling, and it’s the ultimate jewel. She grabs the precious metal and slowly touches the surface of her wrist. She begins to add some pressure-slowly at first quickening with every second that goes by, oh the beautiful pain, it fills her soul, she wants the feeling.
                It’s too late now, she’s pierced throught, her once soft skin. The memories of her past begin to pour through her mind, she quickly grabs the blade again-the pure joy and beauty; it asks nothing in return, -- except for more of the vile liquid that erupts from her veins.
                And then it’s over, she looks around and sees the green of the park she’s been sitting in, the tree which she reclines on, the reality of her surrounding hits her- so shockingly at first, but it feels so fake, it’s not enough, so she reaches under her long sleeve shirt and is reminded of what she’s done. She feels some shame, knows what she’s done is wrong. But it doesn’t matter; part of her still loves the feeling. And she knows that she’ll return once again and grab the blade and slice her wrists. Maybe one day she’ll manage to go deeper and it’ll all be over, but until then, the blade remains her only friend.