with depression comes manipulation. you end up lying. you lie about how you feel or you let out bits but not whole truths. they believe you.
with self harm comes manipulation. you know you have eight blades but you give up five. you have twelve hiding spaces but you give up eight. they believe you.
with progress becomes manipulation. you use the coping skills and say are helping. you cut in different places. you lie about feeling better and let your emotions out somewhere else

I don’t understand why suicide is a bad word, it happens daily.
I don’t understand why a suicide would be one persons fault, it never is.
I don’t understand why people say they didn’t do enough, you did everything you could.
I don’t understand why people think they can fix it with a hug and a kiss, it’s a lifelong battle.
I don’t understand why people think cutting is a suicide attempt, it’s an unhealthy way to stay alive.
I don’t understand why people think wanting to die is cool or funny, it’s not.
I don’t understand why people feel the need to stare, it’s just a bandaid.
I don’t understand why they take your blades, it only causes you to search for more.
I don’t understand why people get desensitized to it after awhile, it invalidates your pain.
I don’t understand why it’s attention seeking, we always hide it.
I don’t understand why I stay at the hospitals for days, it never helps.
I don’t understand why I have to keep going, there is no,













point.

Self harm starts as one small cut. One blade you found in your brothers drawer. You heard him say one time that it makes him feel better. You hurt and you don’t know why. You take the blade to your skin for the first time you press down and pull it across your skin. You are hooked. It bleeds and it fascinates you. You wipe the blood away with some toilet paper and put a bandaid on it. You hide the blade under the bucket in the cabinet and move on with your day. You can’t stop thinking about it. You go back later and do one, two, three more cuts. You create a routine. You go back day after day. Multiple times a day. You tell yourself you can stop anytime until you realize you can’t. You look down at your thighs one day to do a few more cuts. You realize there is no more space. You move to your stomach. Then to your calves. Then your wrist. You look at your body in the mirror one day and see it is covered with blood, scabs, and scars. You disgust yourself. You can’t stand to look at yourself. One day your mom sees a scar or a cut that pokes out the top of your sleeve. She tells you that you are destroying yourself. She tells your dad and he yells a you says that you are an attention seeker. You believe it You believe all the horrible things people say about you. You see more and more flaws that you can’t stand. Its too much. It is all too much. Its too much. You go to the hall closet. You find the bottle that says minipress. You grab it shut the door and walk into the bathroom. You open the bottle and pour it’s content out into your hand. There are about twenty four pills. You put them on the counter, lining them up one by one. You find yourself picking them up one by one and placing them in your mouth. You pick up the last one and swallow it. It hits you. You realize what you have done. You lay on the ground and wait to fall asleep. You wake up in a strange rubber bed covered in scratchy sheets. You open your eyes and look around there are three strangers and your mom in the room. You are in a hospital. You survived but you realize you didn't want to wake up.