The Adventure of the Bleeding Wrists

Sitting in a room,
my wrists are crying
but the tears are red,
they are sad,
they wish to be left alone,
not to be picked on everyday and night,
they hate having things thrown at them,
hate walking down the hall and hear insults,
with each passing thought
they cry more and more,
leaving a puddle on the floor
after a while they grow weak,
they have cried too much
they have run dry
there are no more tears,
so they decide to sleep,
a sleep that will carry them away
far from this torture,
these bleeding wrists are not chickens,
they have been through hell,
and decided that going through hell,
was enough adventure for them
they are tired of adventure,
so the bleeding wrists sleep
and never awaken.