When I’m feeling bad, the blade is the only thing that helps me feel alive, the blood drippping down my tighs, the paintful yet calming sensation of the blade opening up my skin is the only thing I can feel, the tears rolling down my cheeks, the guilty filling my chst as I keep crying.
That night I was listening the soft breathing of my sleeping brother, the calmness and peace that I desire, he has it, and that made me feel even worse, I’m crying silently, squeezing my pillow and stuffies, drowning my sobs in them.
The next day, my clothes were brushing against my wounds, my eyes were red for crying myself to sleep, the tiredness noticeable in my demeanor, but they didn’t noticed, I knew they won’t even notice my nervousness whenever they touched my arms above my sleeves, I knew they couldn’t feel the pain I felt, the sting I felt when I took a bath after a relapse, I know they’ll never feel how much guitl I can feel after every relapse, I know that they’ll never notice if I relapse, because they never notice a shit.