I remember when I was seated in their living room.
My sister and her husband were laughing, and a subject came up.
See, we had decided to watch the movie Beetlejuice.
And the receptionist in the office after the movie couple died- had cuts.
She said something around the lines of she wishes she had died a different way
and that she would have if she would have known
that those death wounds on her wrists wouldn’t fade
even after death, you know?
And they took this to delight, laughed and commented that she did it wrong.
The lines are supposed to go up and down, so she could really bleed out.
And I stared at them in complete awe.
Thinking, “They think we don’t know how?”
I said, “Not all people who self harm do it to die.
They actually do it to cope, it’s a release of endorphins.”
They called it retarded and continued to laugh and smile.
And I embraced silence so the situation wouldn’t worsen.
Little did they know of the scars and cuts on my thighs.
I touched my leg gently and bit at my lip.
My sister says they do it for attention, but I know that’s a lie.
Because hiding this everyday has caused my heart to rip and rip.