villain (self harm)

as I cut into my skin,
not seeking death, but peace within,
it feels like I’m the villain cast
in my own story, fading fast.

I rewrite calm in anxious lines,
turn quiet wars into designs.
Each scar a map I didn’t choose,
a language built from things I lose.

My body a canvas, painted thin,
a knife carves stories in my skin,
etched deep where healing wears thin.

I trace the marks — they speak to me,
of battles fought invisibly.
A way to cope, a way to flee
from thoughts that twist and quietly seize.

How someone’s words can cut so deep,
their silence louder than my grief.
Their distance cold, their warmth withdrawn —
my friends left me, one by one.

Too much, too little — never right,
I dulled my glow to fit their light.
My softness masked, dismissed as strong,
but they stopped seeing me all along.

I faded in my daily strife,
a shadow in my waking life.
Cutting through numbness just to feel,
unsure of what is false or real.

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