Why is it so hard to show you what I’ve done?
The scars, the tools, the simple things you wouldn’t believe could do it.
The puncture marks around my wrist,
The little slivers I once kept as a reminder,
The raw marks on my arms,
Legs,
Back,
Neck,
And more places you wouldn’t guess.
I try to explain but the words keep getting caught,
Like my voice never existed.
Ever since I was sent here, I haven’t cried, done any wrong, or talked.
How can one understand the pain that you know it causes,
The release you know goes with it,
The itch that you can’t help but scratch?
You’re a doctor yet why can’t you see?
You’re supposed to help me yet you just sit there.
Staring at me stare at you.
How is that supposed to help me?
Or are you waiting for me to go first?
You classify me as the silent type, not wanting to get help, just wasting your time.
You’re wrong.
The one thing I want is help,
Help to make me get control again,
Help to understand it’s always been just me without help,
Help to take away the itch.
The itch is wrong,
Yes I know,
But how can one stop it after so long?
How can something that was a mistake become such a need?
The urge is strong when you just sit there and don’t try,
Try to help the wanting to go away.
Why must I suffer because you don’t help?
Why me?
Please my Goddess tell me!
Why must I be the one at the end of this chain of hate?
I slowly look up, take a breath,
And speak…