unwell

What I wanted to say to him went something like this:

"I want you to treat me like I'm worth something to you. Give a damn about me and the things I love. Don't pressure me into things you know will hurt me; if I say I don't like something, don't do it again. I'm hurting right now, and you make things worse. But for some reason I can't stop wanting to be near you."

All I really said in the end was "I'm okay. Really, I'm okay." Even though I was trying not to cry and he could tell. He must have asked 100 times, and I never answered. I just don't want to be needy, and I can't say what I want to say without being dramatic and dumb. Because it's my fault, all of this. I was the one who kept showing up when he called, I'm the one making a choice to keep seeing him.

On Wednesday I cut two-inch lines into my thigh, one after another. I also added some to my collar bone, I always need to cut and scratch myself there. It feels so incredible to watch little drops of blood beed up and roll down my paper-white skin. It's like grotesque rain drops on a window pane, mesmerizing.

When he saw the cuts he gave me a look. I think he understands that they aren't from any kind of accident. When he asked I said I didn't want to talk about it. I wonder how many lines I can make before someone confronts me.