The razor approaches my wrist and I cry so hard I can barely see. Something
is telling me no, something else is telling me yes. I dig deep inside my
cold wet body looking for answers. There are none. I drag the razor across
my skin and a thin line starts to disperse red liquid. What is this liquid?
It is my blood. I shed this for the people that want me to die, for the
people who hate me and the people that have been asking me to kill myself so
that they never have to look at me again.
 
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