She was angry.
Angry at herself, her
parents, and people she called friends.
She was angry at
everyone.
She looked in her
bathroom mirror.
She hated everything.
She hated her hair, it
wasn’t shiny enough like they wanted it, it wasn’t curly not matter how many
times she curled it.
She hated her skin; it
had spots not freckles, big scars that scarred her life. It wouldn’t cover up not
matter how much makeup she’d put on, no matter what product she used it never
went.
So she cut it.
She used the blade and
slashed her skin where spots irked at her, she slashed her wrist.
She cut her hair
unevenly and pulled at it so hard her scalp hurt.
Her blood spilled out of
her cuts, it was hot just like her anger and no matter what she did her
insecurities still showed peeking out, laughing at her.
She couldn’t escape it;
no matter what she did her anger didn’t go.
She was a mess.
Just before she could
fall limp on the ground her mum entered and caught her; saved her.
She wished she wasn’t.
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