What would you do if I told you that I couldn't look you in the eyes today, not because of your hand on my leg or my tendency to be awkward, but for the fact that I saw your arm and I can't stand the idea that you hate your own skin that much to tear it open and it makes me a hypocrite, I know, but you deserve better than that and you need to get better and you told me that you did it once and you can do it again, but it doesn't seem like there is an effort, and if there is, it means you are worse, and I don't like your arm looking anything like mine and I wish I could take this pain away and I would do anything to convince you to try to stop, and I would be willing to lose everything I have just so you would stop causing yourself harm, or better yet, not feel the need to because if it is still an option, you are just resisting and not living and you need to do that and, no, we are not just put on this world for others because otherwise we wouldn't tear apart our flesh to feel something, anything, because we have trained ourselves not to feel, and I don't want to wait until August or January, because you will have moved on, or I will have, or one of us will be dead or so cut up that we cannot look at each other without weeping and it's funny if you think I can't cry because I have sobbed far too many times over you and the idea that the sickness that lives on me is still inside of you somewhere, and I just want us to be okay, and for us to not lie, and for you to smile and for me to smile back, no matter what, and for me to kiss you without it being insane?