a poem written by : Lotus
He was hurt.
He, was hated.
By the world, though mostly by himself.
His skin was the problem.
That's what he told himself.
That's the lie he was fed. What he then believed.
His skin wasn't pure enough.
For the pearls of this world. The beauty's. He was a flaw in an almost perfect picture. That's what they said.
And every night. He would try to fix it, to fix himself.
But you can't fix what isn't ruined. You can't fix with a blade.
Trailing along his fractured, broken and tinted skin,
with a metal monster.
Never did he win,
the fight of salty tears and tortured screams. Always they'd escape his chapped lips, by midnight.
And he always wished, that he could cut it away.
Cut away his skin and rip it off. Because that's all they saw, they only saw his skin.
He screamed, ignored pleas.
He cried, unnoticed tears.
He shouted, not sure for what.
And they ignored the fact that the biggest fault should be placed on them, for telling him that his skin was imperfection. That he didn't belong and that he never would.
And the world heard him, but turned their backs.
He screamed--but all he was.
He cried--and ever will be.
---is the boy who cut.