These scars on my wristes tell a story.
They tell a tale of my past and my present.
They speak the things I cannot say.
They are there for you to notice.
But they are unseen by your eyes.
They are covered by my braclettes.
They are covered by my sweatshirt.
You are too stupid to notice.
So I just keep cutting.
One day I may cut too deep.
And it will be all your fault.
Just remember my scars tell a story.