I think they forgot that I'm sick.
I didn't, though.

How could I, when
Nightly I clutch my pillow wth tears in my eyes
and sometimes I sleep with a blade by my side.
In the bathroom, I'd strike the match box
and watch the fire burn.
When I wear shorts, I'd put my hand to my thigh
and trace over scattered scars.
When, often, I fantasize and plan out countless ways to die
and remind myself I have only my promised year left.

Maybe its easy for them to forget though, because
I never really let myself cry
or cut my thighs.
I never let myself press the match to skin
and let myself burn.
I never let anyone see the scars,
pulling those shorts down.
And I could never really commit
because I'm too scared of failing.

Its strange, though,
Despite how I've stopped the self-harm,
it still hurts.