the blade never asks me why,
it only listens.
every cut is a language
my mouth can’t speak,
every bleed a confession
no one wanted to hear.
i thought you, of all people,
would understand the storm,
would take my shaking hands
and whisper me back into softness.
but instead,
you made me feel like dirt—
like the wound was my fault,
like i deserved the sting.
so here i am,
talking to scars like they’re old friends,
watching the blade shine in the dark,
wondering if maybe
it’s the only thing
that ever stayed.
~nishii
