My hands are shaking,
My wrists are aching,
I think of all the hurtful things and then,
The knife cuts through my wrist again,
I don't want to be here,
Held back by constant fear,
I want to be someone who can win,
Or even just someone who fits in,
But no-one likes me,
Just because me what they can see,
I'm one of the few,
That they've made hate themself too,
With all the hurtful things they've said,
running through my head,
I pick up the knife,
I consider ending my life,
My brains telling me i should,
But i know that wouldn't do any good,
Because that would mean that they have won,
I Should just keep pretending I'm having fun.
