So, she cuts. She cuts because she feels worthless. She’s invisible and no one bothers to talk to her. She’s always told herself she liked it that way, but maybe she’s just lying to herself. Maybe she really feels like she wishes that just once someone would try and talk to her and be her friend. But why would they do that? She’s a freak in black with a cross on her necklace and marks on her arm, even if they’re the shallowest of marks. She’s a creep that sits and scribbles in her notebook, scared out of her mind to speak because she knows that was never something she was good at. She always messes up what she says and her words catch in her throat. She’s never been good at anything, now that she thinks about it. Not sports or art. She’s never been the smartest, or the prettiest, or the social one. She’s practically nothing. But no one cares. She wishes they did. She wishes there was someone who would look on her with love if she told the truth, but they wouldn’t. They would just run away. She’s a freak, and no one’s ever told her otherwise. And so, she cuts.