There she stands,
Alone,
Tattered.
You look at her
And see
A girl who is so unearthed.
She wears long sleeved shirts,
That are black and too long.
She does this for her shame,
For her scars.

There is another girl,
So peppy,
She seems so falsely secure.
She seems like nothing,
Can harm her.
But for this one too,
The scars haunt her.

Another one walks by,
With eyes so blue,
She seems like a ghost,
He past seems untrue.
She has her scars but they are different,
They seem to be
Her past incarnate.
A memory of her childhood's death,
That started with a drunken man.

Yet another seems to walk on by,
Tons of friends,
None of them shy.
She has a love to be handcuffed,
And she finds ecstasy in the pain.
She talks of whips and chains,
She loves to pretend to be raped.
She enjoys to please you,
But she loves the pain more,
She finds regular sex such a bore.

Another one stalks by,
She wears the scars as banner.
She seeks attention,
She hopes someone will stop her
And shout:
“What in hell are you doing to yourself?”
But nobody stops
They all just walk on,
Her scars she meant to be her gong,
Yet it seems as if she failed.

And the list of cutters goes on and on,
But the truth is they are not all goth,
Nor are they all faking schemers.
So why don’t you think before you shout
And realize
You do not know all.
And that you,
Are not God.
 
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