I cut myself again for the last time the night before last, proceeding to fall asleep, hoping I wouldn’t open my eyes this morning.
Waking up to a floored mascara line so straight down my cheek, I didn’t know tears could glide so unbent.
Ruler aligned cuts stand ***** like railroad ties over the flesh of my wrist.
I walk around, careful because I’m concealing a secret that only I can possibly know.
The bracelets hugging the veins in my wrist are nothing but a fashion statement working to disguise the cuts that haven’t yet turned to scars.
I walk around, half hoping someone notices, but still praying they don’t.
The feeling as if everyone around me can hear the thoughts whispering inside my head as they grow louder the more I try and look someone in the eye.
Can they see that the dam inside my eyes broke and was put together when I focused on keeping the blood contained from my wounds?
Gambling with the idea that the people I walk by and next to and towards know that I tossed and turned too many times to remember.
Risking and hoping the **** Band-Aids won’t draw attention to the damage I’ve done to my skin,
Until I take them off, allowing the cuts to breathe,
To heal into scars.