There is a girl. She is curled up in a room, an empty room. She drags her knees to her chest and throws her arms round her thighs. Warm, salty tears flow from her eyes. She looks around, nervous. There is no-one. She is alone.
She is broken. She holds her stomach to stop herself falling apart. She is crumbling; no-one can save her. There is no-one to save her from drowning, drenched in floods of tears and blood.
No-one understands the broken child. She is shunned; her friends do not know or understand her or why she finds relief in razorblades. She is ostracised and treated like an outcast. She is an outcast.
Her body remembers the steely touch of razors. There are scars that will never heal; they line her arms and legs. She is flawed. She is perfectly flawed. She is unloved. There is no rescue. There is no happy ending. She longs for a prince to sweep her off her feet, but that fairytale is a blood-splattered fantasy.
She has the hardest battle of all. She doesn’t have to combat anyone else but herself. Her only war is with her mind. If she can beat herself, she can beat anyone.
She can beat herself. She can beat self harming. Nothing is for forever...
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