I've wanted to die. Needed to cry.
I could scream, but it wouldn’t be enough.
Little boy: Are you an Angel? ...
She was surprised.
I hate it when people see my scars. I can feel their judgement.
My scars are like the stars. Too many to count.
Why do we cut ourselves? A simple question.
A complex answer.
I like to cut myself. It’s f****d up, I know, but I get a perverse pleasure from it.
A short poem about facing a craving.
Love keeps me from cutting.
I cannot sleep. I wish I could weep.
I always share my scars with you, so that you do not feel it too.
There's a desire to cut. A despair about death.
I am hurting so much inside, and I don’t understand why.
I would like to cry, but I can’t, and I don't know why.
Getting better at resisting.
If tears could spring forth, then I would not have to cut.
The problem is. I don’t want to stop.