I carve the lines.

I once carved the lines and acted like I was fine.
The lines began to grow addictive and I can’t stop. They sit comfortable at the top of my thighs, just waiting for the new additions to be drawn into the skin. Going over the older ones, giving them a new look, watching them bleed, red slowly seeping through like cracks in the ground.
They sting and burn, but it’s okay, a little plaster obviously makes it all go away.
I carve the lines and act like I’m fine.
I carve the lines as I sit down and cry, I wonder how I ever got to this point, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to stop, but for now, I’ll still carve the lines.
The lines on my skin that no one can see, the lines on my skin that tell my story.
My little secrets that hold a deep memory.