I told you that you could never hurt me
because all of my wounds are self inflicted.
You assured me that that was ridiculous to say
because you would never hurt me in the first place;
and you kissed my scars and told me I was beautiful.
But this hurt me more than any slap to the face ever would
because I could see in your eyes, that are deeper than the ocean,
how much you meant it, and yet I could not see it.
You plead with me, telling me you want me to be happy, and
you wish that you could make me feel alive.
But the truth is, I have been dead for years,
wandering in a hell full of fear and self hatred.
There is no saving me.
The call of razors soothe me to sleep at night
as blood trickles down my arms.
The sensation in my heart feels the same as it does
when you look me in the eyes and
tell me you love me.
And I love you.
But I don’t know what to do, because
I love my scars too.