The darkest truth I have is
Darker than my depression.
Darker than my anxiety.
The darkest truth I have
I've hidden from everyone.
I hid it from my parents,
I hid it from my therapist,
I hide it under long sleeves.
I started again.
I don't really know why, but I love to see myself bleed.
I can only focus when I'm in pain.
I can only feel a numb bliss when I have slits on my wrist.
But what scares me more,
More than my own scars,
Is that I can watch others cry,
I can see them hurt and upset,
And I cannot care.
I can't bring myself to feel anything.
Before my depression all I felt was
A slight discomfort.
But now I just don't care.
And I have to admit I'm scared.
So there, two birds with one stone. Two of my secrets I never thought I'd make known.