found via colour lover
I'm real, like I'm alive, like something no one else is able to do for me. You look at me strange, like I'm abnormal, like I need help or desperate measures of medication, and in comparisons of metaphors and similes, it could be ounces of truth. When you don't follow the rules, play ball in the house, vases break. Hearts shatter when fairy tales don't play in order. In real life, the step mother wins, the prince is ugly to the bone and nothing is real except for the pains and scars the hurt me. Don't keep it inside, and don't let the fairy tales win. You look at me strange because you're afraid of me; you're afraid of my scarred arms because I let them show while your insides have been all cut up.
