You never thought anyone would notice.
Hell, you never thought it mattered.
It started small,
With an idle nick on the point where your wrist met your palm
Using a rusty penknife you found.
You never knew what you were getting into.
You searched it up, and realised that cutting on the wrists was too easy;
The internet said you were seeking attention,
And you weren't, goddammit.
Attention was never your goal.
This wasn't some weird cry for help.
You just wanted the hole in your gut to feel a little less empty.
It grew, though.
Like a monster it latched onto your heart and grew.
It fed on your hurt.
You found out why people, when they hide, preferred their thighs:
It hurt more, bled more.
After a while, you just started wearing knee height shorts at home.
No one ever questioned it. It was the beginning of the rainy and cool season.
Why would anyone question it?
Hell, for them to question it, they'd have to notice you were there first.
Some days, though, you wished you weren't.
It didn't seem worth it.
You trudged through your day and passed off everything as a bore.
And on those days, the blade dug a little deeper.