Nails on my wrist,

clawing on the skin that won't rip ---

nothing's private anymore.

You saw the marks and knew the truth,

we've both been hiding for so long.

You're dead and I'm cutting,

or at least that's the way things were


I didn't want to cry this time,

but I should have know so much better.

I'll wear long sleeves even when I'm hot,

because there are too many things to conceal.

You told me hurting myself wouldn't make it better

and I thought killing yourself will?

I think I've made myself sick with regret,

of another time I screwed things up.





What now?