except her

no one notices the marks. the bruises. the tiny burn scars, shaped like needles pressed hot across skin. the 2-4 inch slices into the skin on her arms and legs, hidden half-heartedly under leggings and sweaters.

no one sees the messy room with the lighter and the black-tipped safety pin, warped in shape from a purpose it was never meant to be used for lying on the otherwise dusty nightstand. the razor, almost rusting at the edges from months of unuse, suddenly plunged into action as mania takes over at 3am.

no one hears the sounds of muffled hyperventilation as the hand reaches towards the razor, as the fingers thrust needle into fire. quiet is the sharp intake of breath as needle is pressed insistently into skin, as the razor is slowly, brutally dug through flesh.

no one feels the burn of the fire; no one experiences the sting of blood flowing, welling up through the tiny valley etched into the skin.

no one tastes the bitter, silent tears when the pain subsides and all that is left is the insatiable need.