My mother once said that the scars we give trees are permanent just like the ones we have ourselves. This was after they found out I was harming myself. This is five years ago.
My mother cried, my father did too.
It was one of the only times I've seen him cry.
My mother had told my father, probably the night she saw the marks on my wrist.
We all sat in my room after my father got home from the trip he was on.
They asked me why, but I didn't know, and gave them some lies.
They heard it as what they wanted to: Truth.
Days later they found a note for after I was dead in a blue notebook, that I still have.
How foolish I was to leave it out.
You can imagine that went over well.
They asked, crying "It's just one of your stories, right?"
I told them the word they wanted to hear.
I can't remember much, and we never talk about that time now.

But four years from that time the problem arose again.
They haven't seen my marks, they are on my hips.
Hidden by the cotton of my underwear, how clever am I?
Not very.
But I am slowly fighting this off, and solving a problem that couldn't be solved the first time.
I'm glad I've a second chance now.
I'll remember what my mother once said, and listen to her more.