I look at the cuts on my wrist
Mirrored by the scars from the past.
I gaze into the mirror at my tear-stained face
Hoping to comprehend my sad, red eyes.
I stare at my wrist in the mirror
Trying to connect the image with myself.
I feel as if this is not real
This is not me.
I wish to understand why I couldn’t reach out
Why is asking for help so hard?