Some days I find myself reading through past messages, trying to remember how I felt back then.
A part of me thinks that maybe, just maybe, if I’d reached out for help instead of gently closing every door, I wouldn’t be like this;
Chewing on paper clips for the taste of blood on my tongue instead of my fingers so my parents would stop complaining about the bite marks on my hands.
I think I’m just glad they never look beyond the jackets I wear 24/7 or the number of cat scratches I got recently or the ghost that paces around our house on sleepless nights.

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