I wrote a poem. Last night in bed. I guess it's about me and him....

You can't understand me,
That's fine, no one does.
Why I put the blade up to my wrist,
To show you just because,
I'm not all that important,
I'm just wasting your time.
What in hell use is it to you,
What's on my goddamn mind?
"Why do you do it?" People ask,
I mean, it don't feel all that great.
But I bet you'd do the same thing,
So you'd control your fate.
"Of course I wouldn't!" You shout appauled,
"I'm not that fucking queer!"
I disagree, I'm sure you would,
If your lover wasn't near.

When I finished, I cut my wrists. I don't know why. It's just something I wanted to do, so I did it. I wasn't sad, I wasn't lonely, but bored.

He took my wallet today and I freaked out, because that's where I keep my razor. He looked in it and I went balistic.

"No! Don't!" I said frantically and grabbing it from him.

"I just wanted to see if there was money in there." He said.

I looked in there to try and find it, and lo and behold, it wasn't there. I searched my pockets and realized after today and doing yet another cutting in front of them (They still haven't noticed), I forgot to put it in my wallet. I put it back in and decided I didn't care anymore. I let him see it. He knew it was there....and he didn't take it away.

I told him not to, but God I wish he would have. I would have been immature about everything. Whenever I say I want something that's harmful to me, I really want the opposite. Like I wanted him to take away my razor. I want people to help me. I want him. I want him to help with this shit. Scars will fade over time, but my emotional scars feel like they're being branded onto my skin day after day to make sure they won't fade.