I don't know when it started, or if I was always this way. I am not even sure if I want to get better anymore. Though I do know I don't want to be here, or anywhere rather. I'm just a worthless human who only deserves to rot.
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I woke up with the clock searing it's neon numbers into my sole. According to said clock; it's 3:21 in the morning. No one else in the house is awake at this time.
Scrambling, I gather the items I need that I also scatter across my room to hide what they are there for. Those items are: a box of tissues, some bandages, and a small blade from a multi blade razor. I don't even think about it. I slice my arm with the tiny blade, making a surprisingly deep cut, but I don't stop there. I slice myself so many times I lose count, just laying there for a little bit in a small pool of my own blood.
I quickly clean and dress the wounds half-mindedly, as I am already making a plan on how I'm going to hide this round of self injury. So far I've been mostly successful, though no one has seen the worst of my gashes yet. Some people have noticed scratches and minor cuts.
The weather is getting warmer, I won't be able to hide so easily when it does. I rely on my sleeves to keep me safe from the unwanted judgement of other people. I don't know what I'm going to do when summer roles around, but I know that I can't hide much longer.
