No one would guess.
Who would have thought?
But two and two is four.
Put it together.
It can't be that hard.
Look at me. 
Can't you see the pain?
Can't you see the hurt?
I wear a smile
But it's a lie.
Mask, facade, fake.
Hiding the stabbing pain
That controls me.

My hip is striped
My side too.
How could that be natural?
They are my scars
Some old, some new...
Telling my story.
See, on my thighs
There are more
Plus one on my calf
Some on my arm

These scars,
They are a physical way
To express the pain,

The anger,

The darkness
That lurk inside.
People will label me.
Cutter, suicidal, emo.
People think that's who I am. 
Don't they know
That when they say it
I start to believe it?

I am broken, confused, afraid.
But people don't get it.
"She cuts for attention."
"It's just a phase."
Can't they see?
My scars do not define me.
You can't judge
A book by its cover
A girl by her body.
Why do you have to go through it
To understand?



Again, the visual image and poem are both posted (by myself!) on under the username kmills95.

So I'm not plagiarizing. Promise ;P

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