Does it really show?
Do they know what's going on?
Can they see the sickness?
The faces I make when it stings
When my wrist burn
And I'm sick to my stomach
Every time the blade breaks through my skin
When the blood slowly trickles out
As my wrist stings with every cut
While I'm sitting in class and clutch my wrist
And start making faces
As they stair at me and look so confused
My wrist stings
But I have to do it
It gives me something else to think about
When I feel unloved, unwanted, and worthless
It makes it so much easier to not be depressed
While I miss my old life
And want to just die
But the sting helps the emotional pain
Gives me something else to think about besides the depression
But I must not tell that I've killed the butterflies
