A/N : Something I've not done in a long time, written in a style I've barely touched. Enjoy…
I was born between the cutting edge and the sword.
I was a mess of flesh and bones and blood with barely enough skin
To hold it together.
And they said I was a miracle.
I was fucking ugly, fucking crying
Yes, I was just a baby, as would be said.
One year of age I was learning to walk
Away from the sheathed sword.
One year of age I was learning to talk
Yet had not spelled a word.
I was a toddler see?
Not yet child, still.
Human.
Five years had passed, I was naïve
Enough to be lied to.
Five years had passed, I've now been asked,
What my life would be when I grow up.
I was a child with questions,
No answers, but…
Why?
Seven years now, I started school,
What's there to learn?
Seven years now, my friends are cool,
And yet we burn.
I still see the sword,
It has no meaning,
It just grows smaller.
Ten years breathing, no longer child,
Yet to be teen.
Ten years breathing, want to go wild,
Break rules, it means.
The sword is small,
It still cuts,
Deep.
Fourteen, not yet adult.
I'm a rebel and a queen!
Fourteen, no fucks given!
This is no cult!
The sword is gone,
I bear its pain.
It bleeds on me now.
Fifteen, hiding away the scars,
I un-skin myself with wild tattoos.
I crave for the art
That I was never meant to create.
Sixteen, away with softness,
I could care the fuck less.
Sixteen is an urge to live,
Yet filled with nonsense of life.
Seventeen, comes all the firsts,
First kiss, first partner,
First to get expelled,
First to never give a fuck when someone fucks you anyways.
Eighteen, adult maybe?
Still alone, no more friends.
Where are feelings?
Where's my mind?
Nineteen, I still remember the sword.
And as the little needle of filth sneaks its way into my
Scarred skin, I know now.
I can't think.
I can't.
Breathe.
I can't…
Live.