| abstract | - The knife’s sweetly cold edge feels so good against my skin. It traces a thin crimson line over my wrist. I resist the urge to lick the blood away. No need to make a masochistic ritual any weirder than it has to be. I know, I know, only ten and already cutting. I’m supposed to wait for my teenage angst for being so depressed. No one even believes me when I say I’m miserable. That’s one of my reasons. I know that my wretchedness is supposed to have limits, but I’m not subject to a lot of limits as of late. I’m Faith. I don’t look depressed. I wear bright colors, I put my hair in ponytails, and my room is mostly blue and green. I have a family of four (not including me), and from the outside, a pretty good life. But no one listens. ‘You’re too young to understand this,’ ‘Too immature’, ‘too innocent’. No one believes that one of the greatest minds in the family belongs to the little sister. No one will let me even try to show them. So I hold my tears in. For all they put me through by shooting me down, I love them. I don’t want them to see me for who I am. I need to protect them from that.
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