I’m fragile.
I’m so fragile that sometimes I hurt myself on purpose. I cut my hands open like they were in a need of a surgery when in reality they’re not. I like the pain the cuts make; I like the way the blood tribbles out of the wounds and runs down my arms; somehow it makes me feel safe again. Hurting myself makes me feel safer and calmer.
I’m so fragile that I cry myself to sleep and hope to never wake up again. I cry in the shower and I cry in my room when my parents are in the living room watching TV-shows thinking I’m okay. They should think again because I’m way less than okay, I’m sinking and drowning into my own sadness but they don’t see it. I don’t want them to see it, they would only make it worse.
I’m so fragile that I stay awake until it’s light again so I wont dream about that certain someone or about things I can’t never have.
I’m so fragile that I smile and laugh as if I was the happiest human on Earth. They don’t know that I hurt myself, cry everytime I’m alone, feel like I want to die. They don’t know and they wont know because I plan to stay fake-smiling and laughing as long as they believe it.
