It’s amazing how every person is said to have a specific purpose in this world, whether it means you are meant to become a doctor, or maybe a pilot. When you’re young, you want to become a “princess” or a “knight” or maybe even a “rock star”. Sometimes that doesn’t always come true. Sometimes, you end up becoming something you thought you would never become. You might become someone who works at a bakery, or maybe someone who works in a huge store. Unless, you’re like me. You become an artist. An artist who carves beautiful pictures. An artist that doesn’t paint, an artist that doesn’t want to show their art in a gallery, or an art museum, not even online, You’re an artist, that lives in a fucked up world. Where people don’t care if you’re hurting. You’re an artist that lives in a world where you are heart-broken by the people who are around you. You’re an artist who doesn’t use a pencil, or a paint brush, but a blade. A small silver blade in your right hand and a fully painted wrist. Covered by the scarlet red blood, trickling down your arm. Leaning against the bathroom door, you stare at it. Just thinking, you’re an artist, who will eventually give up. You’re an artist that will finally get what they wanted. Suicide.
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