the miserable life of a miserable teenager

Mom took my razor, had to improvise. My mom yells at me for all my failures, as a mother should.

She doesn’t know, I’ve punished myself.

So many scars, I’ve lost count.

Let’s back up to the very first line, still visible faintly to this day.

Broke down at school, scraped a “cut” into my arm with a mechanical pencil. The words “good luck with that” actually came out of my friend’s mouth.

Another friend told me I was doing it for attention. Maybe, back then, I was. It was at a time when I realized I wasn’t being seen. Slice on my wrist oughta do it.

Now, this is just pathetic. Going again and again and again. Surprised my arm hasn’t fallen off.

No, this isn’t for attention.

How could it be, if I don't leave the house? Whose attention to I have do grab?

I really hope using my brother’s box cutter, doesn’t make me look desperate.