There's a different kind of self harm
One that keeps your wrists clean.
One that hides all of your scars
One that lets your pain goes unseen.
Where thoughts are a knife that slice into your soul,
They leave marks and scratches that can never fade.
Self-hate and self-loathing do nothing but harm.
But they can be easier than cutting up your arm
Because then no one else can see how fucked up you are.
Without the constant reminder of infinite scars.
When you hide misery inside instead cutting up your skin,
You hurt no one else because they can't even begin
to understand or even see that you're broken.
You perfect the smiles and the laughs that are expected
But inside you only feel lost, hated, and rejected.
Until the hate inside makes you start to crack
Your wrists start to itch and your skin is blue and black
That moment, right there is when the labels come out.
They tell you how you are a hazard to yourself
All they say makes you want to scream and shout,
"I've always had problems, why should you care now?!"
No one cares as long as they don't have to see.
I can take care of myself, it's all up to me
But now, it's too much.
Now it's too hard for you to handle.
Now there's evidence so you'll get help, or try
Only to stop the guilt before it eats you alive.
