Tip, tap.
Did you hear that?
Once again I've burned my skin.
Now the waters running down, colding.
It no longer hurts.
This is their ointment, their healing potion.
This is their way to show that I'm not okay.
What they don't seem to understand.
No matter how I word my sentences.
No matter how much I make sense.
I know I'm not okay.
I'm not.
I've done this for so long, I've started to not care.
It's no longer a simple never do it again.
It's not something I can pick up my pen to distract from doing it again.
It's an addiction.
One that I don't have to smoke or kill my lungs.
This addiction leaves short term blood with long term scars.
Permanent mental fragility of constantly pining together.
I've done this for so long that I don't wanna get better.
This is apart of my daily life and now I don't know how to live without it.
Like a drug.
Like that sweet pill you take in the morning, cause the doctor told you it'll solve your problems.
Like that weight scale.
I'm not okay.
But I'm addicted and I'm not sure I wanna stop.
