Self h-rm

In twenty years I’ll still avoid the question ‘why did you do that to yourself’ because I’m brave enough to wear short sleeves, I’m not brave enough to talk about it.

Because how do you explain to people that it started at an age where it didn’t even have a name nor an explanation?

Or that your brain is simply broken, messed up in ways that they’ll never see.

Or that I still get the itch to do it, still get the guilt of wanting to.

I know the scars are faded yet they’re still so very prominent on my skin. I expect questions, I just never really answer them.

I mourn that kid. I mourn the child who thought hurting themselves was the only solution. I mourn the teenager who just got used to it.

Alone. I still am, but back then I couldn’t handle it. I sank, I drowned and yet never reached out. I still don’t. But now I know that I’m always drowning.

Self harm doesn’t help, it just makes your mind, your torments visible. It showcases your pain, your struggles and for me it’ll always be visible.

Maybe one day I’ll tell someone. I’ll explain that I was alone, isolated and lost. I’ll explain that I just couldn’t deal with my emotions. I’ll explain it all, down to the gritty details and they’ll listen. They’ll care and tell me they love me anyways.