it's not the self harmer tucked safely away in the back of my mind that wants to crawl back into the familiarity of old habits.
it's the blade stolen from my father's tools, traces of dried blood still gleaming.
it's the bandaids kept in my desk drawer, there if needed.
it's the marks on my neck from rough ***, a pain that sparked the craving for a different distraction back into my body.
it's the fact that i'm never told the truth, my life fueled by lies for years on end that just need to be forgotten about.
it's the racing thoughts,
"he'll leave you"
"he'll find someone better"
"he doesn't even love you, it's a lie"
"you're nothing to him, to the friends you think you have"
"everything she says isn't a joke, it's all the truth but you're just too ******* dumb to realize it"
running on repeat in my mind each and every night like a broken record.
it's the lack of sleep where the loss of blood could take the place of the pills that stopped working months ago.
it's not the self harmer that craves the blade again,
she just brings it out to the open.