This paper plane that’s on my wrist
Flies round and round my clenched fist
As steel is pressed upon my skin
To spill the things that are within
This paper plane that’s on my wrist
Can’t stop the ploy of Fate’s cruel twist
Can’t stop the feelings of despair
Can’t fill my heaving lungs with air
This paper plane that’s on my wrist
I shudder and it gives a twitch
Crooked lines unlike the scars
That run in lines all down this arm
This paper plane that’s on my wrist
Fading away, sharp edges a mist
Gone till another appears
But these wounds will stay for years and years
.
.
.
Temporary tattoos don’t last forever. But the trauma of self-harm does. Raise your voice. You are not alone.
Aditi Chanda is seventeen years old and lives in Kolkata, India. She’s in her last year of school and hopes to study Enligsh or Writing in college. She’s a bookworm who loves to write, and her favorite color is blue, which is fitting since she adores the sea. She wants to write a book, to learn to scuba dive, and to travel all over the world someday.