Birth.
You came into this world a wailing, bloody mess.
As the years went by, you never lost your voice. You never learned what it meant to not speak. Opinions, declarations, comments, all spilled from your mouth like a waterfall without a second thought.
"She's a chatty one, isn't she?" Your parents friends would say in sweet tones as they found amusement in your young rambling. Oh, how they loved you when you were young.
You grew up with words as your talent. You painted sentences into a masterpiece, and your parents encouraged you every step of the way. You glowed with pride at your natural talent.
But then school was a nightmare.
Your peers had little tolerance for a mouth like yours. You spoke your waterfall of words, which they only used to boil and throw back in your face, splashing wicked scars across your skin. Because speaking words- the thing you found joy in at such a young age until now -was used as a weapon here, and those who didn't learn how to aim and shoot quick enough were the targets.
So you learned to close your mouth.
You built a dam in front of your flowing sentences so they wouldn't complain.
Sew your lips shut, little one, and nail the scissors under the floorboards so the temptation to snip away the bloody thread won't be so strong. Out of sight, out of mind they always say, right?
And you learn to stay out of sight.
Alone with your thoughts you sit, confused because the pressure in your chest never quite relieved itself, even when you threw away your weaknesses.
You cut off your voice.
You cut yourself off from those who hurt you, and even those who didn't.
You cut.
And you cut.
And you cut.
The only solution, you think, is to keep going until there's nothing left to hurt.
But the consequences are all too real.
A moment of weakness.
The pressure in your chest channeled to pressure to your wrists.
And it's done.
You leave this world a silent, bloody mess.
Death.
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