Dark-Fairydust

You'll never understand... But I'm glad you don't. Because that would mean You'd have to go through my pain. And I'd never wish that For you.

I'm sorry, that I'm not beautiful. I'm not a supermodel. Are you? I'm sorry, that I'm not funny. I'm not a comedian. Are you? I'm sorry, that I'm not mature. I'm sorry, that I'm not talented. I'm sorry, that I'm not good enough or, loving enough... or, smart enough. I'm not perfect. Are you?

I slid the blade across my wrist Once Twice Again and again. Maybe I’m an emotional freak. I cause fights and arguments Over And over Again. Maybe I’m a troublemaker. I use make up to make myself seem Better And… Prettier. Maybe I’m girly. I complain about things Even when sometimes They’re not That Bad. Maybe I’m an attention seeker. I fall under so many Stereotypes. So maybe I am a label. Or maybe I’m just me.

If you have ever faked a smile Slit your wrist Cried yourself to sleep Wished yourself gone Chased a dream (and lost it) Ended up in a nightmare… Broken down Turned away from your “friends” Been bullied Been stereotyped Tortured yourself over an error Hated yourself… Wished, Dreamed, Lost, Died inside, Feared. If you are a victim… Remember to stay strong. Because you’re only a survivor If you NEVER Give Up.

It feels as if my reflection Points a gun at its own head, As my bullet shoots the mirror And paints the floor with red, And it feels as if my gun Just isn't steady in my hand, Because darling, when I jump off cliffs, Do you think I always land? It feels as if the razor blade Might be my only friend, And it feels as if the broken glass Might soon begin to bend, Because my reflection is distorted, love. Can't you see that, love, can't you see? I'm pointing a gun at the mirror, And the mirror points back at me.

Hush, sweetie, Do not let their judgments define you. Do not let their hatred construct you. Do not let their words build you. Hush, sweetie, Do not let your sorrow swallow you. Do not let your pain devour you. Do not let your loneliness change you. Hush, sweetie, Stop telling yourself lies, Stop screaming in a whisper that you're Ugly Inside and out. Stop telling yourself that you're Worthless. Stop telling yourself that you're Broken, And hopeless, And damaged. Hush, sweetie... It's not polite to lie.

Legs crossed on a cold basement floor, Blood stains painting my flesh, The wounds deeper than ever before, A white gown now a short black dress. Long tangled hair clinging to my tears Wind howling through the trees, Moonlight painting a sky so clear, And darling, I'm going to be set free. My fingers scratch at the blood on my skin, A delightful pain at the thought of a touch, And hey, everyone who said I wasn't worth it, Tell me, Now am I good enough?

Secrets are things that people won't tell, Despite the greatest truths Hidden within them. Secrets are things that people lie to Cover up, In fear of you finding out what's Real. Sweetie, here are a few secrets That I feel must be shared, Because they've been kept for Far Too Long. You are beautiful. You are stronger than your weaknesses. You are unique. You are different. You are perfect. You are not defined by your sadness, nor are you defined by the stereotypes. You are not broken, despite the the scars and missing pieces. You are powerful. Wonderful. Marvelous. You are a fighter. And, darling, I know no one has whispered These t

Stop hating her for the littlest things. The things she can't prevent, The things she can't save herself from.. Stop demanding her to do things, Things she can't accomplish, Things she can't imagine being done... Stop lying to her, Telling her you love her, Want her, need her... When all you've ever done is make her want to Die. Stop hating her for the littlest things. The things she can't prevent, The things she can't save herself from... Because, When those little things you've done Take her down... The little things won't matter anymore.

Her fingers are dirty, Her hair tangled. She's a mess, some would say. But at least her heart is pure. His wrists covered in scars, His stomach roaring with hunger. He's damaged, some would say. But at least his love is whole. Her breathing is heavy, And her skin is pale. She's dying, some would say. But at least she knows how to live. At least a woman without a house Knows how to make a home. Hand her a loaf of bread, And she won't devour it, Because she knows how to treasure The beauty in life. At least a boy without a smile Knows how to hold on, Longer than someone who's never fallen, And never dared to learn How to fly. At least a g