there are nights
i touch my own skin
like it’s glass.
fragile,
cold,
not mine.
i press
just to feel something.
not pain—
not really.
just proof
that i still exist
beneath all this noise.
people say
“it gets better.”
but they never say when.
so i keep waiting
with a blade-shaped question
on my wrist,
wondering
if maybe
this is better.
i told my best friend once.
said it like a joke—
"it itches”
he paused.
sent a "oh, okay".
changed the subject.
i wanted him to say:
don’t do it.
i see you.
i’ll stay on the phone all night.
but no one talks like that.
not when it matters.
so i paint over the scars
with star-shaped stickers
and call it healing.
but they peel off in the shower
and i’m left
with nothing but
old red poems
written on skin
that no one reads.
it doesn’t even bleed right anymore.
just a thin line,
a sigh.
like my body is tired of me too.
i wish someone would ask—
really ask—
why my sleeves are long in summer.
why my voice cracks when i say “i’m fine.”
why i flinch
when i’m left alone too long.
but no one does.
so i keep stitching myself shut
with shaky hands
and half-believed promises.
and i call that
being okay.
