No support

completely on your own without any help, while others yelp, i help myself. My heart is numb while my art’s a gun. I make others bleed while i smoke weed as a way to deal with my grieve. I still suffer, but not as loud, almost as quiet as a mouse. My skin, covered in marks, most of them made in the dark with a knife sharp like a shark. Sometimes i ask myself how life could’ve been if i wouldn’t have been thrown into this bin.