Save Me.

I sit on the train, my head resting against the rain soaked window pane. I watch as a water drop slowly moves its way towards me and then I look up, wondering if anyone is watching the sad girl staring out the window. But then I remember that this is not a romance novel; no one is going to see my hunched shoulders and teary eyes and want to fix me.
Many a good man has tried. They have kissed my scars and held me as I cried, but their compliments wained and I went back to my old ways: scratching at my skin and barely holding myself together. This is not a romance novel. I have to be the one to save me in the end.


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