I’m lying on my bed,
gazing at the ceiling
in despair. My mother
hates me, my new
‘father’ uses me as a
canvas for knives and
artwork. Does anyone
on this world care
about me, or am I
alone in my world
of blind misery? I
look at my scissors
and smile. Within a
few seconds, my
left wrist is red
with blood as it
pours onto the duvet,
staining the blankets
purple. I lie back
and think of my
boyfriend. He will
understand why, in
the fullness of time.
Until then, I will
remain dead – just
another teenage
suicide.
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