my scars

^ cutting isn’t “pointless”. It’s not exactly the best thing you can do, but it’s not pointless to the person. I just posted this poem I wrote a while ago about it. I’ll copy it to this comment to define how it’s not pointless.

Have you ever been hurt?
But I don’t mean for real.
I mean the kind that can’t be seen,
the kind only you can feel.
You keep it to yourself
the feelings you’ve come to accept.
But still, every time you look in the mirror
all you see is a fucking reject.

This pain will build
it rises, boils, and burns.
Sometimes it fades away
but often it returns.
Emotions at a maximum,
heartbeats in a rush.
Some only hold so long
before the pain is too much.

With razor in hand,
slowly dragging across skin.
Not bleeding blood,
bleeding pain from within.
Rage, sadness,
disgust, guilt.
Running down your wrist
with the rest of your filth.

Not trying to die,
but just trying to live.
To ease a secret struggle
because you don’t want yourself to give.
In minutes, it’s gone,
comfort as tears run dry.
But when the cuts heal over
everything’s stuck back inside.

They can’t be contained
they always need back out.
The lust, the euphoria,
fixing the pain nobody knows about.
The need never disappears,
it’s not something you out grow.
But unless you’ve been a cutter,
they’re feelings you’ll never know.