Blind
I set the cold metal to my skin and press down before taking it away with a sigh of annoyance. Why couldn't the silver pocket knife be sharper? Why wouldn't it penetrate my pale wrist as I pressed down on the black handle? Why didn't I have the will power to cut myself? To slice open my wrist and let the crimson pain flow? Why couldn't it run down my arm and erase all my thoughts? Replace mental pain with physical? Stop me from thinking? save me from my won thoughts? My mind wouldn't let my blood do that. Instead it pulsed thought life my veins. Blue veins, beating with my heart under layers of skin. All while my mind continued to mock me. And mock me it did. It let me think I was happy. Reminded me my life is good. Then showed me pain and confusion. Better known as depression.
It showed me a girl who was laughing, cracking jokes, running around with her friends, being hyper, insane, crazy. She loved life even when it hated her. It hurt to know that girl was me to everyone. Almost everyone. One person knows me as more then just skin deep. She knows everything. And she understands. She knows me for who I am-painfully confused. Partly depressed.
Everyone else-all my other friends, even my family-knows me to be that fun-loving-skin-deep-girl. Even after all the signs I thow at them. And I accept that. But still one question remains in my mind.
Why Are They So Blind?
