​Pieces of me 

lie in splinters on

this dusty 

ground- nobody

has made

an effort to erase

my remnants 

from this floor. Yet. 

The key to 

self harm lies in knowing

how to hide it,

in knowing that nobody 

looks at a

supposedly happy person’s 

arms. Or legs. 

Nobody checks a pious 

brat’s veins for 

drugs- this world is about 

appearances. Not

reality. Pieces of me have 

laid here

since last Wednesday and

I don’t blame 

anyone. Why would they want

to come near 

my filthy personality when I can’t 

stand it myself?


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