Some days,
I think of the ways I used to cut myself open.
Just to peak at the
pounding red rivers
hiding below my skin.

I miss the ways,
cutting myself made me feel.
I felt pain,
but the pain wasn't as bad as
the pain in my heart.
My heart grieving at the smallest inconvenience.

Some days,
I miss the ways,
no one knew
this ***** secret of mine.
How I was the sole keeper
of the map of my scars.

I miss the ways,
that sometimes,
someone would find my map.
Someone would find it disturbing
and I desperately miss the ways,
sometimes, someone, would care.