When I cut, it calms me. Focus on a different pain. My body's ugly anyways; give it scars for days.

I'm a 125 pound bruise, but colorless. If you walked in my shoes, you'd find weakness.. Don't pity me for only my reflection is what's sick.. I've got to dispose of these mirrors quick... one more look into my own eyes, one more noticed flaw to contribute to my cries, equals one more cut onto my arm.. one more blood stain on my bracelet's charm..

So, help me keep a smile please... don't condemn my disease.. it's keeping me alive inside.. physically i may resemble death.. but i cut with pride.

Stacy Collinsworth

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/kitchen-butter-bowie-box-whatever/