They don't understand us.
They don't understand what it's like to be you,
or live in your life.
They don't understand how hard you battle and hide your depression so your mom doesn't find out.
They don't understand what it's like to cut again and again because now,
your addicted.
They don't understand how much it HURTS to betray the ones you love.
They don't understand how it feels to fall asleep on a soggy pillow,
only to be tormented by nightmares.
They don't understand how we live in fear.
That we will make that ONE cut that will end it all.
That people will see your scars through your clothes,
because you know you can.
That they will see all the blood,
and find your hiding spots.
That they will knock down your wall,
that has been rebuilt time and time again.
That they will see you cutting in class,
because blades aren't allowed in school.
That they will ask questions that you can't answer.
But most of all,
we fear that they won't care.
They don't care if you die tonight.
They don't care if you are drowning in your own thoughts,
and every breath is a fight.
They don't care how long you have been trying to breathe, trying to live, trying to be free.
They don't care about how much it hurts,
physically and emotionally.
They don't, but we do.
We care because we've done it.
We have felt the blood running down our arms and our legs and our stomach.
We have felt that cool blade slice across our skin and felt that release that allows us to forget about everything.
But only for a moment.
We have ran our fingers over our scars,
again and again.
We know how it feels.
Because we're miserable too.
