Ten years old and I was already scarred.

Scarred with pain. Scarred with words. Scarred with the total desolation of hopelessness.

I was never pretty.

I never will be pretty.

I had short fiery red hair and emerald eyes.

I was Harley Raelynne Cole.

I was fat. Ten years old and I weighed 106 pounds.

I still am fat. I will always be fat.

I hated life.

What are you doing, Fatty?

I ignore him.

I ignore them all.

How'd you get so big? You eat the whole Twinkie factory?

A tear wells up in my eyes. I try to tune him out.

It hurts.

What did I ever do to you?

He smiles cruelly.

You moved here. That's what.

I cry. I hide inside myself and smile at him.

Tears stream down my face but I don't care.

They don't care so why should I?

I hate them.

I hate myself.

I stand and move away.

I do what I've always done. Write.

What have I done?

Cowered in fear. Ran away. Hidden inside.

Let them have the best of me. Again and again.

Like waves hitting the craggy rocks that surround the shore.

The water can only assault the rocks for so long before they begin to deteriorate. It is only so long before they begin to crumble.

I crumble.

I break. With every word.

Scissors are beside me when I am twelve.

The pain inside is too great and yet I am numb.

I will do anything just to feel something.

The blade is sharp.

I do not cry. I do not scream.

I smile.

I can feel.

I want to feel more.

The blade is sharper.

My arms cry crimson teardrops.

They cry every night.

I am fourteen now.

I hide a pocketknife in the sheets of my bed. I have a journal of the times they talk and what they say.

Open the front cover and you see my first story.

I thought they were my friends. They used me. I did their homework for them every night. I got their books for them. I carried their backpacks and dirty secrets. I did their dirty work for them. They yelled at me. Told me that I was a bitch. A slut. A whore. Told me I was better off dead. So as of tonight, I will be.

I tried to commit suicide that night.

I failed.

I fail at everything. From trying to keep a relationship to killing myself.

I can't do anything right.

I didn't take enough pills.

I never cut deep enough.

I can't.

I have friends.

Then I don't.

I confide.

Then everyone knows.

I hide, but the pain always finds me.

I am the girl in the corner.

The girl who wears nothing but black and red.

Black for my ebony soul.

Red for the tears my wrist cries every night.

This is true.

When you see a girl in the corner, remember my story.

I may not be here to tell it tomorrow.