When they see the scars for the first time,
Don’t expect them to understand.
Those white lines that trace across your thighs are not a symbol that means anything to them.
They are not a release,
They are not an opening where pain can scream its way out of your body with blood.
Don’t expect them to look at you with love or admiration,
Because the first time they see those scars all they will see is mental insanity.
There are so few people on the planet who understand the inner workings of a blade that’s been dragged across skin,
So few people who know that being addicted to a silver razor is a real thing.
When you try to explain to them why your body is like a freshly trampled battlefield,
They won’t want to hold you close and try to make the wounds fade,
But they probably will anyways.
They won’t understand why you have to give them your x-acto knife and extra blades that you bought for a class,
They won’t understand why you can’t just keep them in your room.
The first time they find the scars that you thought were so well hidden,
They might break inside,
Their heart may shatter and for a second they may feel everything at once.
Don’t let their shock and fear pull at you;
When they see those scars, let them know how intimate a moment they’ve just experienced.
Open yourself up to them the way you did with the blade,
Let them hold onto your hand as you trace each thin slice with your finger and describe how hard it is to not do it again.
When they see your scars, that’s when you are an open book.
Let them read you slowly or quickly,
Help them turn every page and explain the paragraphs that they missed when they lost track of the words.
Don’t let them become another reason to retreat back to your old wounds and new scabs.