They ask me why I hide my arms,
Why long sleeves cling in summer’s heat.
But pain, when caged, will find a way
And silence cuts more sharp than steel.
It’s not for death I chase the blade,
Not drama, not a cry for eyes.
It’s something deeper, raw, and still:
A scream that ink or words defy.
Each mark a moment made to feel,
A bruise that tells me I am real.
The ache inside that had no form
Now written in a skin-wrapped storm.
It’s not about attention’s flare.
I want no stares, no pityed care.
I only want the noise to stop
To trade the flood for single drops.
But wounds don’t heal from out to in,
And pain ignored will just begin
To rot beneath the stitched-up smile,
Unseen and growing all the while.
And so I try on better days
To find new ways to let it speak.
A pen, a walk, a trembling call,
A tear I finally let leak.
I am not broken, weak, or wrong.
I’ve just been hurting far too long.
And every scar though born of night
Is proof I’ve made it to the light.
