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bloody wrists from cuts from your arms.
you suck up the pain and just move along.
they're just words they're not supposed to do you harm.
then you come home and focus all of the pain on the razor.
you go in your room and hide in darkness.
the scars on your arms are permanent reminders.
of what you have done because finally you wanted to feel something.
other than the constant stress of your emotional distress.
you laugh it off in their world ,your the perfect pretender.
then you go home alone all by yourself.
in a demension where it is only lonely and depressing.
and you continue to cut yourself so you can feel.
like pain is a neighborand you can go knock on his door.
But in the end its just you and your bloody wrists