I just want to let go. I couldn’t tell you why. I like the way it stung, the heat underneath my skin. I didn’t like the way I had to look them in the eye, telling them a lie, that I was okay when I knew I wasn’t. I didn’t like the way I did it in secret, laughing to the next person. 

Pretending I didn’t just stand in the kitchen, that I didn’t just bring a knife to my skin. I broke my skin. I did it to hurt myself, not to scar. If it scarred, people would see and they would question. The only problem was that I was addicted to it. I liked the way it was hurting. I do it regrettably as I stand my life for my God, as I cry then pray for my life.