You put bandaids on my cuts; you say "everything is going to be okay? I promise"

content warning: mentions of self harm

You get the first aid box; hidden away like a rabbit in a burrow. A bird sounds like it's called, just like my screams for help.

Blood spills onto the floor - dripping, staining the carpet. I feel guilty, just like when a mother realises a year that she wasn't there for her child. It will stain; leaving a crusty patch. A reminder of a bad time.

I had gone to the bathroom, left for safety, left for not wanting you to be burdened by the rain cloud above my head. I sat on the toilet, a call for you to knock on the door asking if I was okay.

There are already traumatizing memories on my skin. I called for help. I had hid them for years before anyone realised. No one had caught on as to why I was wearing long sleeved t-shirts in summer.

You come over to me with the first aid box, concern for gracing your face. I see that pained expression on your face - feeling regret as you have now seen my bad times in reality.

Now you see - how ill I really am. A square larger band aid is placed on my wrist - soaking up the blood. I feel better now that you can't see it anymore.

image doesn't belong to me