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Black Shadow

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Copyright, Black Shadow

I have over 16 scars, from using my pocket knife. I don’t have many real friends at school, only a few. Why don’t I have friends? I feel like I’m a freak or something. My mother seems to be comparing me to my perfect brothers all the time. Their grades were better, their work was better, everything was better than mine. It stresses me out so much. What’s the point of my life? I’m never going to be happy. Maybe I should end it now?

When I first cut myself, I thought I wouldn’t get addicted like many other people had. Guess what? I did. I can’t stop. It’s a way of release. Why am I ruining my life? But, what’s left to ruin? I have kinda suicidal thoughts. But when I remeber some of my better, closer friends, I just can’t do it. I have visions of running away from home. I’m not using a razor; it would be a lot harder keeping it a secret. I don’t cut my wrist, only my arms, my legs, and sometimes my chest. I sometimes loathe myself and I cut my purely to just see blood. Maybe I am a freak. Nobody’s noticed all the cuts that’ve been appearing. I’m twelve years old and I’ve been cutting for over five months. My brother, Taylor, gets at me over the smallest things, such as feeding the dogs. I can’t keep dealing with this.

 

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