Are you that naïve to think anyone would notice?
You wear your scars like jewelry, with no explanation to where you got them (or how much you paid).
Scabbing burns lace around your wrist accessorized with still dripping slashes draped across your collarbones. Without hiding them, you walk through life faking enjoyment and self-esteem.
You stand poised, waiting for certain destruction whenever anyone double takes. And you stop breathing as they squint their eyes, tracing what used to be a lover's name branded on your palm. You sigh, upset they didn't ask and relived because you still have control.
This is what you always wanted right? Control and a chance to be perfect, but you're terrified by discovery, of being the freak, of losing everything you worked so hard to fake into everyone else's reality. You hide your tools of beautiful destruction and pretend that you're not ashamed of what you do.
Working so hard to convince everyone else that you're just fine the way you are. Wishing you could step right into the lie you've woven. But you can't, you can't even remember the excuses you made up (on the spot) for the burns sketching their marry way across your calves.
You spend your nights screaming into your pillow trying so hard not throw away your lies for truth.
Fold the matchbook backwards, pinch, and pull across the paper for a light, watch the wick hissing to life. You heart pounds, ready to shove everything under the bed at the first sound of footsteps creeping in the hall. Hands are shaky and sweaty as you hold the paper clip just above the flame—waiting, waiting for smoke to curl black around the tip and wax to condense on the bottom waiting for the wax to drip back down and the tip to catch fire so you can put it out against your waiting skin.
You flinch, every time you burn; the pain is brand new and unexpected. The relief is a heroin drip directly into the carotid artery, addictive and relaxing. Your pulse rate plummets and pauses just above flat line.
Your entire life devoted to feeding the love hate relationship, so you can prove that you're the one in control. That you're the puppeteer, not the puppet rotting in the corner.
You think you have all the control, you think that you can fool them all with a winning smile and a laugh. But your wrong, the truth is, you're not the puppeteer, you've come unraveled to just fluff and string.
The only one you're fooling girl, is you.