Twelve.

You were so caught up in your negative ways, you failed to see the beauty of life. Your demons whisper in your ears, through your brain. Skeletons dance in your closet to the sad music you play loud to drown out those voices. You cut so deep because you’re falling apart. You try to mend your broken heart, but it shatters to tiny pieces. You take a warm bath to not only cleanse yourself, but to drown out your sorrows; to end your life. You’re scared of the dark because you see dead people and you fear that they will hurt you. Hurt you like those boys hurt you that one night. You’re fragile. You’re vile. You’re broken. You’re so soft spoken that nobody can hear your screams for help. Nobody believes that you’re living in Hell because you smile. You’re just a child in need. There you go again cutting your wrists. You say to yourself, “If I end it now, I won’t be missed.” Your demons are taking over; they’re winning. You’re so cold, your heart is now an empty hole. “Will things ever get better?” you say as you bow your head in woe.

You’re fragile.

You’re vile.

You’re broken.