I hate myself for lying,
For lying to you.
I didn't mean to,
But that's a lie if I ever told one.
I told you,
I told you it was about the blood;
And I meant to lie.
I'd come up with that excuse a long time ago.
It's easier than admitting the truth.
I knew what I was doing when I said those things.
You looked at me like I was crazy,
Said that one day people would call me suicidal.
Sometimes I wonder how much truth is in those words.
"You're suicidal."
Maybe I could be.
It'd be a lot easier.
But I refuse to take the easy way out.
So when you catch me raking my fingernails across my skin.
When you catch my picking at scars and scabs,
Silently begging for blood to flow.
I told you it was about the blood.
That it was somehow calming.
But I lied.
It's not about the blood.
It's about the pain.
Every time I feel my lungs constrict,
My heart rate go up,
I dig my nails into my skin.
Sometimes I leave marks for days
Trying to ward off the panic attacks with my pain.
When I told you that the nail marks in my arms were made in my sleep,
I lied.
That was me trying to keep the panic attacks at bay.
When I came in with nail marks so deep they drew blood,
That was me desperately trying to stay awake.
Desperately running away from the nightmares.
When you asked me if I was ok,
And I said I was,
I lied.
I haven't been ok for a long time.
I don't know why I'm telling you this now,
I guess I'm just tired of always running.
