"I go to type the URL of this site into the search-bar-typey thing (I'm so great with words.), and I type hope instead, and stare at if for a second trying not to laugh."

You asked today how many poems you'll come back to,
When you finally reach home,
Where you probably won't reach until midnight,
And I hope to God you drive safely,
And that other drivers aren't idiots.

And I'm sitting here,
And you don't know this,
But I'm scared.
Because you don't know
Exactly how many years I've laid in bed,
Bandaged hands/wrists/arms,
Regretting things beyond my control,
Myself when I was beyond my control,
Wishing someone had been there
To calm me down before I very literally
Lost my head (or more of left my head).

Wishing someone could have stayed,
'Cause when you start bleeding out at nine years old,
And coming to and having to figure out that
Meat tenderizer and coriander gets blood off shirts, carpet, and sheets.
Otherwise you need to wear red or black.
And the one person you want to tell you can't tell,
Because at ten years old you still don't know how or why it happens.

And it hit me hard today
At ******* Barrel.
When we sat outside and you touched my scars.
Because in a way you were touching a part of me
No one else has had the unfortunate circumstances
To come up upon
Besides myself.

The part of me that knew all along
That all of that sickening regret that would
Sit like a blade in my stomach,
Sinking and twisting,
Was because my scars would hurt someone else
Who never deserved to be hurt at all.

And for all my talk,
I'd never hurt anyone
Without a reason.
So to think that maybe
My scars,
Or the fact that I got that bad,
Has somehow made you feel
In a way that is painful
Or fearful
Or something,
It makes me want to *****.

This isn't self hatred.
I wasn't there.
I can't control myself if I'm not there to control myself.
I had a reason.
I was fifteen when the worst scar happened,
And very early in the year of being twenty when the worst wound happened.

Maybe I feel too much guilt.
Maybe I apologize too much.
Maybe I'm too afraid of giving in to this feeling of you and me, and us.
Maybe I'm not proper,
And I don't know how to explain myself correctly
And articulate myself very well,
But this is who I am right now.

As Soupy Campbell from the Wonder Years once said:
"I'm getting better, but it's in small steps."

And I'm so much better.
I don't think you understand.
Who I used to be
Is someone I hope you never encounter.

The tears,
The rage,
The pain.

I never want you to see me that way.

And while I do care
If you like my parents
Or if they like you,
I want you to know
I've been doing this whole life thing
Mostly on my own
For a very long time.
Support systems don't really happen for me.

It's not like being alone scares me,
It's letting someone in
So entirely
That terrifies me.

And yet it's happening anyway.