Looked down upon with shame
a person walks by,
with pain written on their face.
Hidden under sleeves is marks.
Scars of self torture torn across the skin
Their heart does not ache anymore
for a shell is created around themselves
sheltering them from the outside world
shutting them in.
A shell so tight they refuse to wear color for it might penetrate that shell.
So more scars come.
For a feeling of pure hope.
That by feeling something,
death might not occur, but be prevented.
By a razor, by a knife.
Deeper, more painful.
It is not enough.