'writing' 'writer' 'write' 'self harm'
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I know a boy who draws his way through life,
He didn’t do it traditionally,
On a piece of paper,
Or with a pencil.
His canvas was himself,
You see my smooth wrists
And assume I'm just fine
But you can't see my thighs
That are covered in lies
Put there for a reason
Hidden and covered by cloth
So that no one can see it
Someone asked me
Why I write
What is my purpose
What do I aim to incite?
Following is the answer for anyone
Wondering the same.
There is no single reason
Here are a few claims
I was told my voice didn’t matter in a jungle of lions
That my efforts were child’s play and I should go sit with the little kids
That if I ever wanted to own anything, I should call myself the ruler of nothing
Silence ..
Made up of debris from the war
that rose from
the impact of the shells
ordering my shadow
to run
trying to avoid
the blast wave
that would
destroy
