I do not cut.
I do not hurt what is outside in order to kill what hurts me inside.
I let what is destroying me inside swallow me up.
Thus you cannot ever see me drag that blade across my skin.
Thus you cannot see a scar marring my skin.
You cannot see my eyes brimmed with tears like April dewdrops.
That give you enough reason to think that I'm not in pain.
That is OK.
I look OK. I'm not bringing you down with me.
And that makes it all OK for me.
Killing my insides is protecting my outside.
I want to destroy myself with what prevents destruction.
I want to be saved by that which damns me.
I never thought you would grant me my wishes.
Now I feel near perfection.
My eternal gratitude for you, dearest.
Yet I do not feel more alive, nor more dead.
Perhaps it's becuase I am already dead...
And you can't kill a dead person.