He wakes up. He has no face, no name, just scars. His smile has disintegrated into nothing and his heart as heavy as wood. He had carved love into his body thinking it would be perminent, but no. It had left just like foggy glass. He was new, but vintage. Clean, but majestic. Empty, but overflowing and, sad but demolished. He had never known life, but who really has? Only to see the world he was born. Not like many others. So this man without an identity left his cliché morals for something more illuminant.


As soft spoken boy of about a teenager’s age, sent fourth into life. He may now know it as “Hell”. He was a rat in a cage waiting for experimentation. His friends wanted the old him back, his parents, and everyone he knew. They just never realized he had changed into himself, not the person he never wanted to be. He stopped becoming fabricated and came into reality. Except for a sorrow unpleasant mistake everyone wanted the old him back. He searched and searched and just couldn’t find that “old him” back. Everyone wanted a piece of him, something he just wasn’t. They wanted to change this portrait and make it into what they wanted. So he harbored his fears close and relied on the razors for help in his sanity. After all scars can take the pain away.