He asks me why I cut
Fingers lightly tread the battered remains of my now feeble wrists
A question I've answered a million times in my head
Desperately wanting someone to ask
As if my jumbled thoughts might sound better outside the contents of my skull
My explanation catches in my throat
A conversation a million times rehearsed rings silent
He waits.  
It is impossible to explain cutting to someone who has never purposely taken a blade to their own skin
Much like it is impossible to explain the addiction of a  ****** addict to someone who has never been high
It is an escape
It is taking back control of a world that spins far too fast for its own good.
And for many it is power,
Feeling so insignificant in this world
A pawn in the hands of fate on any normal occasion can dictate life or death with a razor in their hand.
It makes you feel something when you no longer feel anything
It is a tattoo marking every day you've been too weak to carry on but survived
They are tragically beautiful scars tracing our bodies
That most of us would rather die than give up.
All of these things make no sense to a normal person
But I am so far from normal.
But maybe my silence is enough to make him understand
This taboo isn't worth fretting over.