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A Dead Rose To Some

I'm forced to stare.
Stare at myself.
At my reflection.

I see dark lines,
circling my eyes.

I look down at my wrists,
covered in scars.

My fingernails, covered in black.
Bitten down to my finger.

I look back at the mirror.
Why?
Why do people stare?
Do they think I'm going to hurt them?

Just because I'm different?
Just because I am who I am?





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Evil_scar said...
Apr. 28, 2010 at 7:54 am
This is a good poem that I can relate to.
 
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