I cry as I grip my razor. It slices my flesh and the blood begins to flow. A week goes by, and now I have new scars. I show them to my friends, but they don't do anything. They pretend like I just want attention, so they don't give it to me. That night I cry and cut a heart into my thigh, crying myself to sleep. The razor slips from my hand to the floor. I wake up feeling the same sorrow. So I wait for mom to leave for work. Then I scrounge the house until I find a full bottle of pain reliever. I take the bottle to school in my purse. I tell everyone how much they mean to me, and pretend everything is okay. Then I sneak in the bathroom and stay in a stall until the hallway is empty. I swallow the whole bottle praying for death, instead I end up puking them across the floor. My friend finds me, and finally realizes I was serious. And she tells me to never do it again, she loves me too much. What if she was too late? What would she say then? Would she feel guilty? No. She left. And I was happier. Then the depression hit again, and I told her. She told me to stop begging for attention. So now I sit here, debating what to do. Should I pull the trigger? Or should I attempt another day? I go with another day. And everything is better than it could've been. I'm glad I'm alive, or I would've missed how beautiful life could be when you actually live it.