[Kaderin Triste]

I look down at my scars, so light against my skin, one hidden carefully behind a tatto, but I can still faintly see it; can trace it even though it's faded more than the other. 10 years. It's been 10 years sonce I made these scars, since I was so depressed, so alone, so empty that I wanted to die. But not empty enough to do it because I was still too scared of the pain to do it so I just grabbed the closest object, a thumbtack, a sewing needle, I don't remember what and I carved it over and over, up and down my arm almost, but not right above my vein, over and over until it bled juuust a little. And then I picked the scab for weeks, months even. And when it finally healed, I started on the other arm.
All I wanted was for someone to notice, to say something; anything. To just smile and say "hey, want to get some coffe?" Anything other than their fake, plastered on smiles. Their awkwardness as they noticed and looked away. They did't have to ask about it. All I wanted was a real, genuine interaction with someone. To be treated like a real person, not just some empty android; a shell of a person who isn't really there.
I had done so much better. I hadn't felt like this in such a long time. In the back of my head, I want to believe that people out there actually care. Not say they care because I; we, those so lost and empty and alone express a desire or urge to harm ourselves, but to actually care. But I am empty and alone and I feel myself itching for the feel of a thin needle between my fingers, the dull then sharp scratching as it slowly makes it's little groove, the subtle hint of red when it hits deep enough. Because, let's face it, who's gonna stop me? There's no one here. I am alone. I will always be alone.

...and I am so fucked up that I don't trust anyone anyway...