About 'tattoo sleeves on girls'|heart tattoos for girls on side

Ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ｔｉｍｅ               Ｉ               ｃｕｔ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｄｅｌｉｂｅｒａｔｅｌｙ,               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               14.

Ｍｙ               ｐａｒｅｎｔｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｄｏｗｎｓｔａｉｒｓ               ｆｉｇｈｔｉｎｇ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ａｌｏｎｅ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｄａｒｋ               ｒｏｏｍ.

Ｉ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｈｏｗ               ｔｏ               ｃｏｐｅ.

Ｓｏｍｅ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ               ｈａｄ               ｔａｌｋｅｄ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｃｕｔｔｉｎｇ.

Ｈｏｐｉｎｇ               ｉｔ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｈｅｌｐ               ｍｅ               ｄｅａｌ,               Ｉ               ｄｒａｇｇｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｒａｚｏｒ               ａｃｒｏｓｓ               ｍｙ               ｓｋｉｎ               ｔｗｉｃｅ,               ｃａｒｖｉｎｇ               ａ               Ｖ.

Ｉｔ               ｓｔｏｏｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｖｉｃｔｉｍ,               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｔｈａｔ'ｓ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ:               ａ               ｖｉｃｔｉｍ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｍｏｔｈｅｒ'ｓ               ｒａｇｅ,               ｏｆ               ｔｏｒｍｅｎｔ               ｂｙ               ｍｙ               ｐｅｅｒｓ,               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｒｌｄ.

Ｉ               ｆｅｌｔ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｍｙ               ｌｉｆｅ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ.

Ｉ               ｉｍｍｅｄｉａｔｅｌｙ               ｆｅｌｔ               ｒｅｌｅａｓｅ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｗａｒｍ               ｂｌｏｏｄ               ｆｌｏｗｅｄ               ｇｅｎｔｌｙ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｍｙ               ａｒｍ,               ｃａｌｍｉｎｇ               ｍｅ.

Ｍｙ               ｆｒｕｓｔｒａｔｉｏｎ               ｗａｓ               ｒｅｌｉｅｖｅｄ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｒｉｃｅ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ａｒｍ'ｓ               ｆｏｒｍｅｒ               ｂｅａｕｔｙ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｐａｉｎ               ｗａｓ               ｉｍｍｅｎｓｅ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｆｉｒｓｔ               ｔｉｍｅ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｅｎｊｏｙｅｄ               ｉｔ.

Ｉｔ               ｎｕｍｂｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｔｏ               ｅｖｅｒｙｔｈｉｎｇ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｏｎ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｌｉｆｅ,               ｍｉｎｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｈｅａｒｔ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｒｌｄ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｍｅ               ｍｅｌｔｅｄ               ａｗａｙ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｍｅ,               ｔｈｅ               ｂｌａｄｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｌｏｏｄ.

Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｆｒｅｅ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｅｖｅｒｙｔｈｉｎｇ               ｅｌｓｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｉｔ               ｆｅｌｔ               ｓｏ               ｇｏｏｄ               ｔｏ               ｆｅｅｌ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｎｅｗ.
               Ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｄａｙ               Ｉ               ｗｏｒｅ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｓｌｅｅｖｅｓ.

Ｍｙ               ｂｏｙｆｒｉｅｎｄ               ｃａｕｇｈｔ               ｍｙ               ａｒｍ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｗｉｎｃｅｄ.

Ｈｅ               ｐｕｌｌｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｍｙ               ｓｌｅｅｖｅ               ｔｏ               ｄｉｓｃｏｖｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｕｎｄ.

Ｍｙ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ               ｓａｗ,               ｔｏｏ.

Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｓｃｏｌｄｅｄ               ｂｙ               ｍｙ               ｕｐｓｅｔ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ;               ｓｏｍｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｃｕｔｔｅｒｓ,               ｔｏｏ.

Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ａｌｓｏ               ｓｈｏｗｎ               ｓｙｍｐａｔｈｙ,               ｃｏｍｐａｓｓｉｏｎ,               ａｎｄ               ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄｉｎｇ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｓｏ               ｄｅｓｐｅｒａｔｅｌｙ               ｎｅｅｄｅｄ.

Ｎｏｔ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｏｌｉｔａｒｙ               ｍｏｍｅｎｔｓ               ｏｆ               ｐａｉｎ               ｒｅｌｉｅｖｉｎｇ,               ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ａｆｔｅｒｍａｔｈ               ｗａｓ               ｃｏｍｆｏｒｔｉｎｇ:               ｓｕｐｐｏｒｔ,               ｌｏｖｅ,               ｈｅｌｐ.
               Ｉ               ｓｏｏｎ               ｇｏｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｅｌｐ               ｆｏｒ               ｗｈｉｃｈ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｃｒｙｉｎｇ               ｏｕｔ.

Ｉ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｍｙ               ｆａｔｈｅｒ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｄｅｐｒｅｓｓｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｈｅ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｂｅ.

Ｍｙ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｕｉｄａｎｃｅ               ｃｏｕｎｓｅｌｏｒ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｗｏｒｒｉｅｄ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｔｒｕｌｙ               ｈａｒｍ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ.

Ｉ               ｗｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｈａｖｅ;               ｉｔ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｄｙｉｎｇ.

Ｗｈｅｎ               ｓｈｅ               ｃａｌｌｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｆａｔｈｅｒ,               ｈｅ               ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅｄ               ｈｅｒ.

Ｈｅ               ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ               ｔｏｏｋ               ｉｔ               ｓｅｒｉｏｕｓｌｙ.

Ｈｅ               ｅｎｒｏｌｌｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｉｎ               ｃｏｕｎｓｅｌｉｎｇ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｓａｗ               ａ               ｔｈｅｒａｐｉｓｔ               ｏｎｃｅ               ａ               ｗｅｅｋ.

Ｉ               ｔａｌｋｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｈｅｒ               ａｌｏｎｅ,               ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｃｏｎｆｉｄｅ               ｉｎ               ｈｅｒ.

Ｉ               ｎｅｅｄｅｄ               ｔｈａｔ,               ｔｏｏ.
               Ｉ               ｓａｗ               ａ               ｐｓｙｃｈｉａｔｒｉｓｔ               ｏｎｃｅ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｐｒｅｓｃｒｉｐｔｉｏｎ.

Ｈｅ               ａｓｋｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｉｆ               Ｉ               ｈａｒｍｅｄ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ.

Ｍｙ               ｆａｔｈｅｒ               ｗａｓ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｏｏｍ.

Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｌｉｅ.

Ｉ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｃｕｔ.

Ｉ               ａｌｓｏ               ｓａｉｄ               Ｉ               ｓｏｍｅｔｉｍｅｓ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｐｏｋｅｄ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｓａｆｅｔｙ               ｐｉｎｓ.

Ｉ               ｎｅｅｄｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｎ               ｔｏ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｓｏｍｅ               ｆｒａｃｔｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｔｒｕｔｈ.

Ｍｙ               ｆａｔｈｅｒ               ｗａｓ               ｅｘｔｒｅｍｅｌｙ               ａｌａｒｍｅｄ,               ｓｈｏｃｋｅｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｕｐｓｅｔ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｋｎｅｗ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｓａｙ               ｎｏ               ｍｏｒｅ.
               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｐｒｅｓｃｒｉｂｅｄ               ｐａｘｉｌ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｂｅｇａｎ               ｔｏ               ｆｅｅｌ               ａ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ.

Ｉｔ               ｇａｖｅ               ｍｅ               ａ               ｆａｌｓｅ               ｓｅｎｓｅ               ｏｆ               ｈａｐｐｉｎｅｓｓ.

Ｉｔ               ｍａｄｅ               ｍｅ               ｓｅｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｒｌｄ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｐｏｓｉｔｉｖｅ               ｗａｙ.

Ｂｕｔ               ｉｔ               ｃｈａｎｇｅｄ               ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ.

Ｍｙ               ｍｏｔｈｅｒ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ａｂｕｓｅｄ               ｍｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｍｙ               ｐａｒｅｎｔｓ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｆｏｕｇｈｔ               ｖｉｏｌｅｎｔｌｙ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｌｉｃｅ               ｃｏｎｔｉｎｕｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｓｈｏｗ               ｕｐ               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｔｉｍｅｓ               ａ               ｍｏｎｔｈ.

Ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ               ｗａｓ               ｒｅａｌｌｙ               ｉｍｐｒｏｖｉｎｇ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｃｈｅｍｉｃａｌｓ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｂｒａｉｎ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｆｕｎｃｔｉｏｎｉｎｇ               ｄｉｆｆｅｒｅｎｔｌｙ,               ａ               ｔｅｍｐｏｒａｒｙ               ｆｉｘ.
               Ｔｏｏ               ｍａｎｙ               ｐｅｏｐｌｅ               ｎｏｔｉｃｅｄ               ｍｙ               ａｒｍ,               ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｌｅａｒｎｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｃｕｔ               ｉｎ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｄｉｓｃｒｅｅｔ               ｐｌａｃｅｓ,               ｍａｉｎｌｙ               ｍｙ               ｌｅｇ.

Ｅｖｅｎ               ｔｏｄａｙ               ｍｙ               ｌｅｆｔ               ｌｅｇ               ｉｓ               ｓｃａｒｒｅｄ               ｕｐ               ａｎｄ               ｄｏｗｎ.

Ｉ               ｓｔａｒｔｅｄ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｏｔｔｏｍ,               ｂｕｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｄｉｓｃｒｅｅｔ               ｅｎｏｕｇｈ.

Ｉ               ｅｖｅｎｔｕａｌｌｙ               ｍｏｖｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｔｈｉｇｈ.

Ｏｎｃｅ               Ｉ               ｅｖｅｎ               ｐｕｔ               ａ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｌｉｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｄｅｅｐ               ｇａｓｈｅｓ,               ｍａｙｂｅ               10               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｍ,               ｉｎ               ａ               ｒｏｗ.

Ｍｙ               ｆａｔｈｅｒ               ｓａｗ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｏｎｃｅ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｗｏｒｅ               ｓｈｏｒｔｓ.

Ｉ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｈｉｍ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｆｅｌｌ               ｏｆｆ               ｍｙ               ｂｉｋｅ               ｏｎｔｏ               ａ               ｒｏｃｋ.

Ｉ               ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ               ｗｅａｒｉｎｇ               ｓｈｏｒｔｓ.

Ｅｖｅｎ               ｎｏｗ               Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ.
               Ｉ               ｗｏｒｅ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｓｌｅｅｖｅｓ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               ｍｙ               ａｒｍ               ｈｅａｌｅｄ.

Ｉ               ｒａｒｅｌｙ               ｗｏｒｅ               ｓｈｏｒｔ               ｓｋｉｒｔｓ               ｏｒ               ｓｈｏｒｔｓ.

Ｉｆ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄ,               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｅｒｅ               ａｃｃｏｍｐａｎｉｅｄ               ｂｙ               ｈｉｇｈ               ｓｏａｋｓ               ｏｒ               ｄａｒｋｌｙ               ｔａｎｎｅｄ               ｔｉｇｈｔｓ.

Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｔｒｕｓｔ               ｍｙ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ.

Ｉ               ｋｎｅｗ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｓｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｒｌｄ--ｅｓｐｅｃｉａｌｌｙ               ｍｙ               ｐａｒｅｎｔｓ--ｗｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄ.

Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｒｉｇｈｔ.
               Ｗｈｅｎ               ｍｙ               ｆａｔｈｅｒ               ｆｏｕｎｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｈｅ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｃｏｍｐａｓｓｉｏｎａｔｅ.

Ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ａｎｇｒｙ.

Ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｌｏｇｉｃａｌ               ｍａｎ,               ａ               ｍｅｍｂｅｒ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｉｌｉｔａｒｙ.

Ｈｅ               ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｃｏｍｐｒｅｈｅｎｄ               ｈｏｗ               ｃｕｔｔｉｎｇ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｂｅ               ｓｏ               ｓｏｏｔｈｉｎｇ.

Ｈｉｓ               ｒｅｓｐｏｎｓｅ               ｗａｓ               ｔｏ               ｙｅｌｌ,               ｏｒｄｅｒ               ｍｅ               ｔｏ               ｓｔｏｐ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｒｅａｔｅｎ               ｍｅ--ｔｈｅ               ｌａｓｔ               ｔｈｉｎｇｓ               Ｉ               ｎｅｅｄｅｄ.

Ｉ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｋｅｐｔ               ｌｙｉｎｇ               ａｎｄ               ｈｉｄｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｃａｒｓ.
               Ｅｖｅｎ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｅｄｉｃａｔｉｏｎ,               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｂａｔｔｌｉｎｇ               ｄｅｐｒｅｓｓｉｏｎ.

Ａｔ               ｎｉｇｈｔ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｄｉｎｎｅｒ,               ａｓ               ｍｙ               ｐａｒｅｎｔｓ               ｆｏｕｇｈｔ               ｄｏｗｎｓｔａｉｒｓ,               Ｉ               ｓａｔ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｒｏｏｍ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｄａｒｋ               ｌｉｓｔｅｎｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｌａｓｈｅｓ               ｂｅｌｏｗ.

Ｉ               ｈｅａｒｄ               ｏｂｊｅｃｔｓ               ｂｒｅａｋ               ａｎｄ               ｓｌａｍ               ａｇａｉｎｓｔ               ｗａｌｌｓ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｙｅｌｌｉｎｇ               ｗａｓ               ｓｏ               ｌｏｕｄ.

Ｉ               ｔｒｉｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｄｒｏｗｎ               ｉｔ               ｏｕｔ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｕｓｉｃ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ａｌｗａｙｓ.

Ｉ'ｄ               ｃａｌｌ               ａｓ               ｍａｎｙ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ               ａｓ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｔｏ               ａｖｏｉｄ               ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇ               ａｌｏｎｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｈａｏｓ.
               Ｅｖｅｎｔｕａｌｌｙ               ｅｖｅｒｙｏｎｅ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｇｏ,               ａｎｄ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈａｄｏｗｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｔｏ               ｅｍｂｒａｃｅ               ｍｅ.

Ｓｏｍｅｔｉｍｅｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗａｓ               ｅｎｏｕｇｈ               ｔｏ               ｃｏｍｆｏｒｔ               ｍｅ;               Ｉ               ｆｅｌｔ               ａｔ               ｐｅａｃｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｄａｒｋｎｅｓｓ.

Ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｔｉｍｅｓ,               ｉｔ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ.

Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｔｕｒｎ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｒａｚｏｒ,               ｗｈｏ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｃｏｍｅ               ａ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄ.

Ｓｏｍｅｔｉｍｅｓ               Ｉ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｎｅｅｄｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｃｕｔ               ｏｎｃｅ               ｏｒ               ｔｗｉｃｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｔｉｍｅｓ               Ｉ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｓｌａｓｈ               ｍｙ               ｓｋｉｎ               ｏｖｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｏｖｅｒ.

Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｌｉｋｅ               ａ               ｄｒｕｇ.

Ｓｏｍｅｔｉｍｅｓ               ａ               ｑｕｉｃｋ               ｆｉｘ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｄｏ,               ｂｕｔ               ｅｖｅｎｔｕａｌｌｙ               Ｉ               ｎｅｅｄｅｄ               ｍｏｒｅ               ａｎｄ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｔｏ               ｇｅｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｓａｍｅ               ｅｆｆｅｃｔ.
               Ｉ               ｅｖｅｎｔｕａｌｌｙ               ｂｅｃａｍｅ               ｓｏ               ａｃｃｕｓｔｏｍｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｉｔ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄ               ｉｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｆｕｎ.

Ｉｔ               ｂｅｃａｍｅ               ａ               ｔｗｉｓｔｅｄ               ｆｏｒｍ               ｏｆ               ａｒｔ.

Ｉ               ｃａｒｖｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｂｏｙｆｒｉｅｎｄ'ｓ               ｎａｍｅ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ａｎｋｌｅ               ｏｖｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｏｖｅｒ,               ｌｉｋｅ               ａ               ｔａｔｔｏｏ.

Ｅｖｅｎ               ｎｏｗ               ｉｔ               ｉｓ               ａｌｍｏｓｔ               ｌｅｇｉｂｌｅ,               ｅｔｃｈｅｄ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｓｋｉｎ.

Ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｈｏｎｅｓｔ               Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｍｉｎｄ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓｃａｒ               ａｓ               ｍｕｃｈ               ａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｔｈｅｒｓ.

Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｄｏｎｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｄｉｆｆｅｒｅｎｔ               ｒｅａｓｏｎｓ,               ｆｏｒ               ｌｏｖｅ,               ｆｏｒ               ａｒｔ,               ｍａｙｂｅ               ａ               ｂｉｔ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｂｏｒｅｄｏｍ.

Ｉｔ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｄｏｎｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｄａｒｋ               ｒｅａｓｏｎｓ.
               Ｉ               ｂｅｇａｎ               ｔｏ               ｒｅａｌｉｚｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇｓ               ｃａｕｓｅｄ               ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｒｕｇ               ｐａｘｉｌ               ｗｅｒｅ               ａ               ｆａｋｅ.

Ｉ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｔｈｉｎｋｉｎｇ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ.

Ｉ               ｎｅｅｄｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｈａｐｐｙ               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｍｙ               ｌｉｆｅ               ｗａｓ               ｇｏｏｄ--ｎｏｔ               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｐｉｌｌ.

Ｉ               ｎｅｅｄｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｓｔａｒｔ               ｄｅａｌｉｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｙ               ｐｒｏｂｌｅｍｓ.

Ｉ               ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ               ｔａｋｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｐａｘｉｌ               ａｎｄ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｃｕｔｔｉｎｇ               ａ               ｆｉｎａｌ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｄｅｃｉｄｅｄ               ｏｎｃｅ               ａｎｄ               ｆｏｒ               ａｌｌ               ｔｏ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｄｏ               ｉｔ               ａｇａｉｎ.

Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｈａｒｍｅｄ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｅｎｏｕｇｈ.

Ｓｏ               ｍａｎｙ               ｔｉｍｅｓ               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｖｏｗｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｓｔｏｐ,               ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｔｉｍｅ               Ｉ               ｍｅａｎｔ               ｉｔ.
               Ｍｙ               ｌｅｆｔ               ｌｅｇ               ｗａｓ               (ａｎｄ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｉｓ)               ｃｏｖｅｒｅｄ               ｉｎ               ｓｃａｒｓ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｑｕｉｔ.

Ｍｙ               ａｒｍ               ｗａｓ               ｌｅｓｓ               ｓｃａｒｅｄ               ｂｕｔ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｎｏｔ               ｖｅｒｙ               ａｔｔｒａｃｔｉｖｅ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｓｃａｒｓ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ａｒｅ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｆａｉｎｔ               ｎｏｗ,               ｂａｒｅｌｙ               ｎｏｔｉｃｅａｂｌｅ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｎａｌ               ｔｈｉｎｇ               Ｉ               ｃａｒｖｅｄ               ｗａｓ               "ｈｅｌｐ               ｍｅ"               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｌｏｗｅｒ               ｌｅｇ,               ａ               ｆｉｎａｌ               ｐｌｅａ               ｆｏｒ               ｈｅｌｐ.

Ｉ               ｗａｎｔｅｄ               ｓｏｍｅｏｎｅ               ｔｏ               ｒｅａｃｈ               ｏｕｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｅ               ａｎｄ               ｓａｖｅ               ｍｅ,               ｔｏ               ｈｅｌｐ               ｍｅ               ｃｏｐｅ,               ｔｏ               ｔｅａｃｈ               ｍｅ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ.

Ｉ               ｗａｎｔｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｒｌｄ               ｔｏ               ｓｅｅ               ｈｏｗ               ｄａｍａｇｅｄ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ.

Ｉ               ｗａｎｔｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｂｏｄｙ               ｔｏ               ｍａｔｃｈ               ｍｙ               ｈｅａｒｔ.
               Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ａｎｙｍｏｒｅ.

Ｎｏｗ               Ｉ               ｈａｔｅ               ｔｈｅｓｅ               ｕｇｌｙ               ｓｃａｒｓ.

Ｔｈｅｙ               ａｒｅ               ｈａｕｎｔｉｎｇ               ｒｅｍｉｎｄｅｒｓ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｔｅｒｒｉｂｌｅ               ｐａｓｔ.

Ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｏｎ'ｔ               ｌｅｔ               ｍｅ               ｆｏｒｇｅｔ.

Ｅａｃｈ               ｔｉｍｅ               Ｉ               ｓｅｅ               ｔｈｅｍ               Ｉ               ａｍ               ｆｉｌｌｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｐａｉｎ,               ａｎｇｅｒ,               ａｎｄ               ｒｅｇｒｅｔ.

Ｉ               ｔｒｙ               ｎｏｔ               ｔｏ               ｌｏｏｋ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅｍ.

Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｗａｎｔ               ｏｔｈｅｒｓ               ｔｏ               ｓｅｅ               ｔｈｅｍ.

Ｉ               ｈｉｄｅ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｓｔｉｌｌ.

Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｗａｎｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｒｌｄ               ｔｏ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｈｏｗ               ｓｔｕｐｉｄ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ.
               Ｉｔ               ｐａｉｎｓ               ｍｅ               ｔｏ               ｓｅｅ               ｗｈａｔ               ａ               ｔｒｅｎｄ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｈａｓ               ｂｅｃｏｍｅ.

Ｓｏ               ｍａｎｙ               ｙｏｕｎｇ               ｏｎｅｓ,               ｍｏｓｔｌｙ               ｇｉｒｌｓ,               ａｒｅ               ｄｏｉｎｇ               ｉｔ               ｎｏｗ.

Ｓｏｍｅ               ｄｏ               ｉｔ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｃｏｏｌ               ｏｒ               ｔｏ               ｇｅｔ               ａｔｔｅｎｔｉｏｎ,               ｌｉｋｅ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｄｒａｍａ               ｑｕｅｅｎｓ.

Ｓｏｍｅ               ｈａｖｅ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｒｅａｌ               ｐｒｏｂｌｅｍｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｎｅｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｄｅａｌ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｂｕｔ               ｃａｎ'ｔ               ｙｅｔ.

Ｉ               ｗａｎｔ               ｔｏ               ｔｅｌｌ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｄｅｓｅｒｖｅ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｏｗｅ               ｔｈｅｍｓｅｌｖｅｓ               ｍｏｒｅ.

Ｉ               ｗａｎｔ               ｔｏ               ｐｏｉｎｔ               ｏｕｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｏｓｅ               ｓｃａｒｓ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｌａｓｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｙｅａｒｓ,               ｓｈｏｗ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｍｉｎｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｅｌｌ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｈｏｗ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｈａｔｅ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｏｎｅ               ｄａｙ.

Ｉ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｈｅｌｐ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｆｉｎｄ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｗａｙｓ               ｔｏ               ｃｏｐｅ.

Ａｌｌ               ｏｆ               ｔｈａｔ               ｉｓ               ｆｕｔｉｌｅ.

Ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｍｏｖｅ               ｏｎ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｔｈｅｙ               ａｒｅ               ｒｅａｄｙ--ｈｏｐｅｆｕｌｌｙ               ｔｏ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ               ｔｈｉｎｇｓ,               ｎｏｔ               ｄｒｕｇｓ               ｏｒ               ｓｅｘ.
               Ｉｆ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｇｉｖｅ               ａｎｙ               ａｄｖｉｃｅ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｐａｒｅｎｔ               ｏｒ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｃｕｔｔｅｒ,               ｉｔ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｂｅ               ｔｏ               ｅｄｕｃａｔｅ               ｙｏｕｒｓｅｌｆ.

Ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｊｕｄｇｅ,               ｙｅｌｌ,               ｉｎｓｕｌｔ,               ｏｒ               ｔｈｒｅａｔｅｎ.

Ｌｅａｒｎ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｉｌｌｎｅｓｓ.

Ｔａｌｋ               ｔｏ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｃｈｉｌｄ.

Ｌｅａｒｎ               ｗｈｙ               ｈｅ               ｏｒ               ｓｈｅ               ｄｏｅｓ               ｔｈｉｓ.

Ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄ               ｗｈａｔ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｃｈｉｌｄ               ｉｓ               ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇ               ａｎｄ               ａｃｃｏｍｐｌｉｓｈｅｓ               ｂｙ               ｃｕｔｔｉｎｇ.

Ｓｈｏｗ               ｃｏｍｐａｓｓｉｏｎ.

Ｍｏｓｔ               ｉｍｐｏｒｔａｎｔｌｙ,               ｇｅｔ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｃｈｉｌｄ               ｈｅｌｐ.

ｔａｋｅ               ｉｔ               ｓｅｒｉｏｕｓｌｙ.

Ａｎｄ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ               ｔｈａｔ               ｌｏｇｉｃ               ｉｓ               ｕｓｅｌｅｓｓ;               ｔｈｉｓ               ｉｓ               ａｎ               ｅｍｏｔｉｏｎａｌ               ｉｓｓｕｅ.
               Ｍｏｒｅｏｖｅｒ,               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｂｅ               ｓｕｒｐｒｉｓｅｄ               ｉｆ               ｙｏｕ               ｆｉｎｄ               ｒａｚｏｒ               ｂｌａｄｅｓ               ｓｔａｓｈｅｄ               ａｗａｙ               ｌｏｎｇ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｙｏｕ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｃｈｉｌｄ               ｈａｓ               ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ.

Ｆｉｎｄｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｄｏｅｓｎ'ｔ               ｍｅａｎ               ｈｅ               ｏｒ               ｓｈｅ               ｉｓ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｃｕｔｔｉｎｇ.

Ｉｔ               ｃａｎ               ｂｅ               ｓｏ               ｃｏｍｆｏｒｔｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ａ               ｆｏｒｍｅｒ               ｄｒｕｇ               ａｄｄｉｃｔ               ｔｏ               ｈａｖｅ               ｄｒｕｇｓ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ,               ｊｕｓｔ               ｓｏ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｔｈｅｙ               ａｒｅ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｉｆ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗａｎｔ               ｔｈｅｍ.

Ｔｈｅｙ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｉｆ               ｉｔ               ｇｅｔｓ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｔｏｏ               ｍｕｃｈ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｅｓｃａｐｅ.

Ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｙ               ａｌｓｏ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｅｙ               ａｒｅ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               ｓｔｒｏｎｇ               ｅｎｏｕｇｈ               ｅｖｅｒｙｄａｙ               ｔｏ               ｓａｙ               ＮＯ               ｔｏ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｔｈａｔ               ｉｓ               ｒｅａｄｉｌｙ               ａｖａｉｌａｂｌｅ.

Ｉ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄ               ｉｔ.

Ｉ               ｋｅｐｔ               ａ               ｈｅａｒｔ-ｓｈａｐｅｄ               ｂｏｘ               ｏｆ               ｓａｆｅｔｙ               ｐｉｎｓ               ａｎｄ               ｒａｚｏｒ               ｂｌａｄｅｓ               ｆｏｒ               ｙｅａｒｓ               ａｆｔｅｒ               Ｉ               ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ               ｃｕｔｔｉｎｇ.

Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｒｅｌｉｅｆ               ｔｏ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｉｆ               Ｉ               ｎｅｅｄｅｄ               ｔｈｅｍ.

Ｅｖｅｎ               ｔｏｄａｙ               Ｉ               ｓｏｍｅｔｉｍｅｓ               ｗｉｓｈ               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｈａｎｄｙ,               ｊｕｓｔ               ｔｏ               ｋｎｏｗ               Ｉ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｐｔｉｏｎ               ｉｆ               Ｉ               ｗａｎｔ               ｉｔ.

Ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｃｕｔ               ａｇａｉｎ.
               Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｄｉｆｆｉｃｕｌｔ               ｔｈｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｏｖｅｒｃｏｍｅ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｕｒｇｅｓ               ｈａｖｅｎ'ｔ               ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ               ｃｏｍｐｌｅｔｅｌｙ.

Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｉｆ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｅｖｅｒ               ｗｉｌｌ.

Ｓｏｍｅｔｉｍｅｓ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ'ｍ               ａｌｏｎｅ               ａｔ               ｎｉｇｈｔ               ａｎｄ               ｈａｖｉｎｇ               ａ               ｈａｒｄ               ｔｉｍｅ,               Ｉ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｃｕｔｔｉｎｇ.

Ｉ               ｔｒｙ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ               ｗｈａｔ               ｉｔ               ｆｅｌｔ               ｌｉｋｅ.

Ｉ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｄｒａｇ               ａ               ｂｌａｄｅ               ａｃｒｏｓｓ               ｍｙ               ｓｋｉｎ.

Ｉ               ｃｏｎｔｅｍｐｌａｔｅ               ａ               ｔｒｉｐ               ｔｏ               Ｗａｌ-Ｍａｒｔ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｔｏ               ｂｕｙ               ｏｎｅ.

Ｉ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ｏｆ               ｔｕｒｎｉｎｇ               ａ               Ｂｉｃ               ｒａｚｏｒ               ｉｎｔｏ               ａ               ｔｏｏｌ               ｆｏｒ               ｓｅｌｆ-ｍｕｔｉｌａｔｉｏｎ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｕｒｇｅｓ               ｃａｎ               ｂｅ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｓｔｒｏｎｇ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｈａｖｅ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｇｉｖｅｎ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅｍ--ｎｏｔ               ｓｉｎｃｅ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               15.
               Ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｒｅｆｕｓｅ               ｔｏ               ｇｉｖｅ               ｉｎ,               ｎｏ               ｍａｔｔｅｒ               ｈｏｗ               ｂａｄ               Ｉ               ｈｕｒｔ               ｏｒ               ｈｏｗ               ｕｎｃｏｎｔｒｏｌｌａｂｌｙ               Ｉ'ｍ               ｃｒｙｉｎｇ.

Ｉ               ｄｅｓｅｒｖｅ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ.

Ｍｙ               ｆａｍｉｌｙ               ｄｅｓｅｒｖｅｓ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ.

Ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｏ               ｓｅｔ               ａ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ               ｅｘａｍｐｌｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｙ               ｃｈｉｌｄｒｅｎ.

Ｉ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｏ               ｔｅａｃｈ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ               ｗａｙｓ               ｏｆ               ｃｏｐｉｎｇ.

Ｉ               ｍｕｓｔ               ｂｅ               ｓｔｒｏｎｇ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅｍ.

Ｉ               ｌｉｖｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｙ               ｓｏｎ.

Ｈｅ'ｓ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｌｅａｒｎ               ｅｎｏｕｇｈ               ｂａｄ               ｈａｂｉｔｓ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｍｅ               ｗｉｔｈｏｕｔ               ａｄｄｉｎｇ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｉｘ.

Ｉ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ａｌｌｏｗ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｔｏ               ｇｏ               ｔｏ               ｔｈａｔ               ｄａｒｋ               ｐｌａｃｅ               ｗｈｅｒｅ               Ｉ               ｍｕｓｔ               ｉｎｆｌｉｃｔ               ｐａｉｎ               ｕｐｏｎ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｔｏ               ｓｕｒｖｉｖｅ               ｅｖｅｒ               ａｇａｉｎ.

Ａｎｄ               ｉｆ               ｍｙ               ｓｏｎ               ｅｖｅｒ               ｆｉｎｄｓ               ｈｉｓ               ｗａｙ               ｔｈｅｒｅ,               Ｉ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｄｏ               ｅｖｅｒｙｔｈｉｎｇ               Ｉ               ｃａｎ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｇｅｎｔｌｅ               ａｎｄ               ｃｏｍｐａｓｓｉｏｎａｔｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｈｉｍ--ｔｏ               ｓａｖｅ               ｈｉｍ.

Ｉ               ｈｏｐｅ               ｈｅ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｄｏｅｓ.
               Ｉ               ｒｅｃｅｎｔｌｙ               ｇｏｔ               ｍｙ               ｎａｖｅｌ               ａｎｄ               ｎｏｓｔｒｉｌ               ｐｉｅｒｃｅｄ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｐａｉｎ               ｗａｓ               ｂｒｉｅｆ               ａｎｄ               ｎｏｔ               ｖｅｒｙ               ｉｎｔｅｎｓｅ,               ｂｕｔ               ｉｔ               ｒｅｍｉｎｄｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｃｕｔｔｉｎｇ               ｄａｙｓ.

Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｅｘｈｉｌａｒａｔｅｄ!

Ｉ               ｗａｎｔｅｄ               ｍｏｒｅ.

Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｌｉｋｅ               ａ               ｒｅｃｏｖｅｒｉｎｇ               ｄｒｕｇ               ａｄｄｉｃｔ               ｔｈａｔ               ｗａｓ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｌａｐｓｅ.

Ｔｈｅ               ｈｉｇｈ               ｗｏｒｅ               ｏｆｆ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｒａｖｉｎｇ               ｄｉｅｄ               ｄｏｗｎ.

Ｉ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｗａｎｔ               ｍｙ               ｅｙｅｂｒｏｗ               ａｎｄ               ｌｉｐ               ｄｏｎｅ,               ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               Ｉ'ｌｌ               ｗａｉｔ               ａ               ｗｈｉｌｅ.

Ｆｒｏｍ               ｎｏｗ               ｏｎ               Ｉ'ｍ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｓｔｉｃｋ               ｔｏ               ｌｅｔｔｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｒｏｆｅｓｓｉｏｎａｌｓ               'ｄｅｃｏｒａｔｅ'               ｍｙ               ｂｏｄｙ--ｗｉｔｈ               ｓｔｅｒｉｌｉｚｅｄ               ｍａｔｅｒｉａｌｓ               ａｎｄ               ｓｋｉｌｌｅｄ               ｈａｎｄｓ.
               Ｉ               ｃａｎ'ｔ               ｔｅｌｌ               ｙｏｕ               ｗｈｙ               Ｉ               ｂｅｃａｍｅ               ａ               ｃｕｔｔｅｒ.

Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｗａｙ               ｔｏ               ｃｏｐｅ.

Ｂｕｔ               ｗｈｙ               Ｉ               ｃｏｎｔｉｎｕｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｉｔ               ｉｓ               ａ               ｄｉｆｆｅｒｅｎｔ               ｓｔｏｒｙ.

Ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｓｏ               ｍａｎｙ               ｒｅａｓｏｎｓ:               ａｒｔ,               ｂｏｒｅｄｏｍ,               ａｔｔｅｎｔｉｏｎ,               ｃｒｙｉｎｇ               ｏｕｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｈｅｌｐ,               ｎｕｍｂｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｍｅｎｔａｌ               ｐａｉｎ,               ｖｅｎｔｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ａｎｇｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｆｒｕｓｔｒａｔｉｏｎ,               ａｎｄ               ｃａｌｍｉｎｇ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｄｏｗｎ.

Ｓｏｍｅｔｉｍｅｓ               Ｉ               ｆｅｌｔ               ｌｉｋｅ               Ｉ               ｄｅｓｅｒｖｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｐａｉｎ.

Ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｔｉｍｅｓ               Ｉ               ｗａｎｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｄａｍａｇｅ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｔｏ               ｓｈｏｗ               ｏｔｈｅｒｓ               ｗｈａｔ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｈａｄ               ｄｏｎｅ               ｔｏ               ｍｅ--ｔｏ               ｈｕｒｔ               ｔｈｅｍ,               ｔｏ               ｍａｋｅ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄ.
               Ｔｈｅ               ｓｃａｒｓ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｓｔａｙ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｌｉｆｅ.

Ｉ               ｂｅａｒ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｓｋｉｎ,               ｈｅａｒｔ               ａｎｄ               ｍｉｎｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｍｉｘｔｕｒｅ               ｏｆ               ｓｈａｍｅ               ａｎｄ               ｐｒｉｄｅ.

Ｉ               ａｍ               ａｓｈａｍｅｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄ               ａｎｄ               ｐｒｏｕｄ               ｏｆ               ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｏｖｅｒｃｏｍｅ.

Ｉ               ｈｏｐｅ               ｏｎｅ               ｄａｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｕｒｇｅｓ               ｗｉｌｌ               ｃｅａｓｅ,               ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｃａｎ               ｌｅａｖｅ               ｔｈｉｓ               ａｌｌ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ｆｏｒｅｖｅｒ.

Ｉ               ｐｒａｙ               Ｉ               ｃａｎ               ｃｏｎｔｉｎｕｅ               ｃｏｐｉｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｌａｄｅ.

Ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｗｉｓｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｓａｍｅ               ｆｏｒ               ａｎｙｏｎｅ               ｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗｈｏ               ｏｎｃｅ               ｃｕｔ               ｏｒ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｄｏｅｓ.

Ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｉｓ               ｌｉｆｅ               ａｆｔｅｒ               ｃｕｔｔｉｎｇ.

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