"Let's fix this", the thirteen year old me says as I drag the blade against my skin.
It is my fault, it has to be
Because why else would they pounce on me like I am a piece of meat?
I push the blade deeper in the hope of dripping out the poison
but I just lie there in a pool of blood.
No, I am not an attention seeker,
I cut where I can see it all the time
To repeat in my head, that I am fixing myself over and over again.
Don't you write your goals where you can see?
Someone please tell them, I am not an attention seeker
Because I am too busy searching for space to cut on my arm when I get back home.
Body, I am sorry I mistake you for a canvas
But it happened all because of you, didn't it?
I hate how those blades appear more inviting than most people
For being there whenever I stumble.
As the days became darker,
Inside the head, my screams became louder.
The outlet - my arms, of course.
Thick-thin, long-short, deep-shallow,
Leaving space barely,
They united on my skin like a family.
I reached out, as the end seemed near
But they said your scars aren't that deep, make them deeper,
maybe then we will consider.
Seven years later, my arms have more strokes than the comb on my dresser.
I hope, now I am qualified enough.