She paints a pretty picture but this picture has a twist you see.. her paintbrush is a razor and her canvas is her wrist she paints her pretty picture in a color thats blood red while using her sharp painbrush she ends up finally dead her pretty pictures fading quite slowly on her arm the blood is not racing through her she can no longer do harm she painted her pretty picture but her picture had a twist you see her mind was the razor and her heart was just her wrist

A broken mirror a bleeding fist a silver blade against a wrist tears falling down to lips unkissed she's not the kind you'll come to miss

Scars. The lines I wear around my wrist are there to prove that I exist.

The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quiet, alone with the heavens, nature and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be. -Anne Frank

⚓ It feels the same, but everything's changed. The wounds have healed, but the pain remains. -unknown