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My Wrists Are Not Scar Free
My wrists are not scar free.
On the outside, they appear healthy and whole, bearing no sign of suffering. But on the inside my spirit is crushed under the weight of despair. Sadness is a sharp knife slashing through my heart. The blood drips.
My wrists are not scar free.
They carry the wounds of others. Her with the bright eyes and kind smile. Her with the adoring laugh. Her with the dark secrets. She lacks the strength to live, and I ache for her. I ache for my own loss, for it is impossible for me to be completely happy when she is in pain.
I carry his scars: slashes of rejection and loneliness. Depression is a cruel captor and he is held hostage in unbreakable chains. My words are not enough to comfort him; he has been a prisoner for too long and his wounds are too deep. His captor has set evil eyes on me and I have stared into that demon face. It is hard to look away.
My wrists are not scar free.
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Although I personally do not struggle with depression or self-harm, I have very close friends that do. I have tried to explain to my parents why it affects me or how it impacts my life, but they do not seem to understand. I wrote this to try to convey how others' pain affects my own life. The descriptions of the female and male in my piece are both based on two of my close friends.