I count them one at a time,
1,
2,
3,
4,
5,
And on and on.
Each scar,
For each time you hurt me.
Each cut,
For each time I felt alone.
Each impression,
For how I will be this away.
So many cuts now,
It's like abstract art on my arm.
From the wrist,
To the top.
No more room to show the new,
So I overlap the old,
And open the wound.
You stand there and laugh,
You think I have no pain,
Because I wear my hoodies,
My long sleeves to cover it.
You always ask why not short sleeves,
I tell you I'm cold,
Or I don't like the way my arms look.
You believe and go on,
To the next joke,
You think it doesn't hurt me,
You think I don't take it personally.
Only if you saw the cuts,
You'd see how I took it.
Now I go on and on,
6,
7,
8,
9,
10.
I'll go and go till i feel no more pain,
I hear no more squeals of pain from my mouth,
Every time I squeal is like another point for you,
So I cut again and tell me to stop.
Only if you saw the real me,
You would change.
But until you see,
I'll stick to my pain.
