Picking up the scissors, I gazed at my scars.
This began the cycle of my self- harm.
Slitting my wrist, and pricking my thighs.
My skin reflected, the dark mood I felt inside.
Cuts deeper than ever before,
feeling relieved as the blood began to pour.
I sat in a corner, drenched in red.
Somehow wondering if I were better off dead.
Tears streamed down my face,
thinking I didn’t belong any place,
but maybe in my own head.
Butterflies fluttered on wings of hope,
they settled on my wrist.
While they began to help me cope.
No more cuts and no more scars.
Just a few butterflies,
that came from a loved one’s heart.
Love colors its wings,
reminding me I’m never alone.
Being able to smile again,
shows me how much I’ve grown.
New tears of joy shed from hurting eyes.
I’m happy now I have my butterflies.
I will protect them and never let them die.
So that I might return the favor for saving my life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem