Drag myself up the stairs,

it’s been a long, hard day.

There’s a mirror

in my room,

I go ahead, take a peek.

Not particularly thrilling,

what I see,

quite plain and imperfect

these features of mine.

Eyes covered with glasses,

face of spots,

a nose that’s a stub,

a mouth that can’t smile.

Skin a wrong color,

it's not cool to

be yellow you see,

hair too black,

to fat to be a model.

Despair in my mind,

as I flop on my bed.

Can I do anything right?

Anything

at all?

I spot a flash of silver

on my desk.

A pair of scissors

lying innocently

there.

Am I brave enough?

Can I?

Will I?

I question

myself.

I grab those scissors

sharp side down

just like mommy

taught me to.

And then I

do it.

Drag those blades

across my

skin.

Silver against

gold, creating

crimson drops.

It feels good.

Good to let

the pain out,

have something

to scream about.

It feels so good.

Do this every day,

hope no one suspects

this secret of mine

so dreadful

so glorious.

I go to my room

after another long day

pick up my scissors

my trusty friends.

They won’t judge,

they don’t care.

Just are greedy,

want more,

want to be stained

dripping in scarlet.

I place the cold edge

against my skin,

scarred with lines

of black

and red.

And I stop.

Turn around,

look in that mirror.

Same drab complexion,

don’t know what I expect

to be

different.

But then I look deeper

in,

glare at the

mirror.

I’m me,

this is who I am.

My stance changes

posture now

perfect.

I walk out the door

greet the day,

throw out those scissors

and

smile

once

again.