Door closed.

Curtains drawn.

Lights dimmed.

Blade sharpened.

What am I doing?

I want this.

Yes.

I do want this.

I'm not depressed.

No.

That's not it.

Why am I doing this?

I'm fine.

Drawing lines, forming words.

I do that all the time.

But this is different.

We both did it.

It's okay right?

No.

It's not.

I know it's not.

Carve deep in my flesh.

It hurts.

I still want this.

I'll have to hide, as usual.

Keep going.

Don't you dare cry.

It's been months I know.

Why did I do it?

It wasn't even a real blade.

But the scars I bear still remain.

I'm afraid of who you made me become.

I'm afraid no one will understand why I did it.

I'm afraid it will be why I can never forget you.