Along with the growing knot in my stomach, my eyes move back and forth, increasing in pace between the door and my fumbling hands as I say a silent prayer that no one will see me, that no one will open my door to witness a broken version of myself, to watch me, as a last resort, use child scissors to unscrew the razor blade from a small, plastic, cheap, green pencil sharpener, one that my father bought me for the first day of high school, the one with the smiling face of a monkey.
When the small blade is finally free, my heart beats faster than it ever has before. I lift my shirt to push aside my shorts and the elastic of my underwear to find the perfect place, a place that no one ever sees. I hate this, I don't want to do this but I deserve it.
I've never done it before, not with what I'm about to use. it's sharper than I expected and I accidentally cut deeper than i intended to but I can't stop. I make several quick cuts. My skin is bleeding. I calm down, slow my heart, clean the cut, find some band aids and hope it stops bleeding soon so no one notices. They don't. People notice what I want them to notice because I'm good at pretending. I like knowing that I feel the pain that I inflict on others because I can't stand to hurt other people.

It was a stupid decision. I shouldn't scar my body. I don't want that. I don't deserve that. no one does.