I stare at the blank sheet of paper
And it stares back, a silent taunt
I grasp my pen like a talisman
Hoping to conjure words, not spells of doubt
My hand tightens around its slender form
As if to extract the last drop of life
Red ink bleeds out in anguish
A lifeblood spilled onto the page's white strife
I struggle to tell my story
As my mind and hand fail to synch
And words refuse to flow
The pen scratches, hesitant and slow,
A reluctant heartbeat in my hand's grasp.

Body's heavy-rock
Mind's scattered all over
Bring me inner peace

My heart beats...
Racing against my body.
Skin set ablaze,
I find myself burning.

Every word from my lips,
Wrapped in petals to cushion a fall.
The eye darts for detail,
With a fear of something unseen.
And every sound past my ears,
Quickens and loudens the thud in my chest.

Eternity in every moment,
And yet not enough time to find peace.

You wanna know what happened?
You see these scars?
Yeah, that’s me.
But you’re too scared to get close.
I can tell by the way your eyes flicker,
like you’re afraid I might break.
Spoiler alert:
I’m already broken.

They ask, “what’s happened?”
Like they want the story.
Like they care.

”Tried to take myself out.”
It’s not a sob story,
it’s a fact.
But they don’t get it,
don’t want to get it,
so I shrug it off,
say it casual,
like I'm talking about the weather.
Like I’m still not choking on the air in this room.

The other students?
They avoid me like I’m radioactive,
walk wide around my desk
like I’m a virus,
like my grief is something that can infect them.
And maybe it can,
but no one’s brave enough
to catch it.

Teachers?
They say, “are you okay?”
In that soft voice
like they’re trying to piece together
a jigsaw puzzle with no picture.
They look at me,
wait for me to cry,
wait for me to say something,
that makes it all make sense
but I’m not here for their comfort.
I just want them to stop acting like this is some mystery.
You can’t fix me with a question.

And my therapist?
Oh, she’s a real piece of work.
Digging, digging,
like there’s some treasure under all this rubble.
She keeps telling me,
”Let’s unpack that.”
Like I’m luggage.
Like I’m just some suitcase of sadness
that’ll be lighter if I open it up enough.
But it’s endless,
layers and layers of pain
and the more I peel back,
the more I realise
there’s no clean way to fix it.

I tell her what I think she wants to hear.
I say it,
because I’m tired of hearing myself say nothing.
But she’s not listening.
No one’s listening.

You wanna know what happened?
This is me.
This is what happened when you’re tired of waiting for someone to see you.
Tired of asking for help.
Tired of hoping the world will stop pretending you don’t exist.

Yeah, I tried.
Yeah, it didn’t work.
And that’s the punchline.
I’m still here.

But don’t worry.
You can keep avoiding me.
I don’t need your pity.
I don’t need your worried looks.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.

And I’ll keep saying that
until it feels true.
Until I can believe it for myself.
Or until I can’t anymore.

But for now?
For now, I’m just the girl
with the scars on her arms,
and I’m here.
And that’s the part
you can’t ignore.