They see the wounds,
But they don't dare to look at the person behind them
And so they judge me
Without knowing.

They don't know
How it feels to have this darkness inside;
So cold, so obscure,
Becoming too much to handle.

They don't know
That a dead person does not bleed anymore;
If I can bleed, I still seem to be alive,
And sometimes I need to remind myself of this.

They don't know
These moments when all this pain inside just takes over,
And sticks in my heart and my brain,
Refusing to let go until I cut away the black parts of my soul.

They don't know
How much I hate every wrong decision I've made,
How I cannot look at arms
Without feeling ashamed for what I've become.

They don't know
What it's like to be so down for basically no reason,
Yet having such a good life
And feeling like a hypocrite for it.

They don't know
How every thin line on my arms tells a story,
A story of loss against fear and sadness,
But also a story of surviving.

They don't know
How hard it is to stop once you started,
I just hope that one day wounds will heal into scars,
And maybe scars will even fade away.

I'll carry most of these marks on my body forever,
And they will look at them,
And judge me without daring to look at the person behind,
But I should not complain, I guess,
There is just too much that they don't know... 

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