I'm scared. Of the next time I worry, of the urges that come after. I now fear the blade more than the blood, more than the monsters inside my head. The screams become louder, the tears run harder, everything blows into oblivion. You look in the mirror, see the fear reflected in the edge of your pupils, dancing in the ring of your iris. The real fear is of yourself, blade in your hand, blood on your arms.