Your arms.
Your legs.
Your wrists.
They are covered.
Covered in scars.
“Stop. Stop cutting.”
“Scars are just marks.
Marks that mean people put on your body.
They put them there because if people are mean,
You end up being mean yourself,” you reply
“Stop cutting. Please.”
“People who cut,
Bruise,
Burn,
And have eating disorders,
Are the most gentle people
You will EVER meet.
They would rather hurt themselves than others.”
“You might cut too deep. You could hurt yourself. Stop.”
“Cutting is the only pain I can control. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“One day, your kids might see your scars.
And think it’s okay for them to do it too.”
You start crying.
“We all wish someone would notice.
But then once they do, we wish they never did.
You are that person.”
“I’m here for you.
I’ll listen to you.
I’ll hold your hand while you cry.
I won’t make fun of you.
You can tell me anything you want.
Stop lying.
You’re not alright.
So quit telling me that you are.
You’re broken.
Bent.
Bruised.
Scarred.
I’ll stay with you all night.
I love you.
I can’t watch you silently suffer anymore.
I’ll help you through this.
Just one condition.
Throw.
Away.
The blades.”