When people see me with blades in my hand, stuck in a corner and sliding it onto my flesh; First thing they do – scream at me and ask me what the hell am I doing. Second – they conclude I’m crazy, no matter the reasons. Third – they try and cure me.

That is exactly the reason why I don’t show or tell anyone about my scars because I don’t want a repeat of what happened before – when everyone in my entire family discovered about it and all they told me was:

“Do you know you could kill yourself if you make a wrong move and hit a vein?”

Yes. Yes, I know that – clear as a fucking day.

Please, don’t try and cure me – I am not sick.

I am not a fever or a flu, in which there are medicines you can feed me to try and kill the the turmoil inside me. There is no bacteria or germs inside me, only suppressed tears and screams that I’ve held back for so long they started clinging to my flesh.

I am not an airborne disease, who caught the sickness of the majority, spreading through the air you and I both breathe in and mimicked their actions – most of them calling themselves sick and not even knowing what it means. I am like this not because I chose to be like this but, because it chose me and I had no more energy and life in me to fight back.

I am not “dangerous” – this I tell you. I may not know the person residing inside my mind who has started calling it home but, I am not dangerous. I will not hurt you or the kid down the street who keep giving me judging eyes because I’ve lost my temper and wanted to release all my frustrations. What are my thighs and wrists for, then?

I am not crazy, like most of you want to call and diagnose me. I am not deranged, wild and out of my mind. I may be different from you but that doesn’t make me insane. The little difference we both have is that I don’t use my eyes to judge people, but I use them to see the black and white world around me. Lastly, I don’t use my fists and my tongue to scar and put indentations on other people’s skin and flesh – but on my own, instead.

I am not a trend, like most people describe it. I am not the beautiful girl with tears and scars that you see painted on a canvass. I am a fucking mess, with blood in my hands and tears pooling around my mouth, slowly mixing with the alcohol and the snot from crying too much. I am wearing nothing but tears and screams and rotten flowers that I’ve tried so hard to water but it needed the sun. I am much more than what everyone portrays me to be.

I am not sick and you cannot just call me names because I have a name of my own and maybe another one for the little voice inside my head that I don’t recognize. Don’t call me names just because I chose to hurt myself instead of hurting you or the people around me. Don’t call me names just because I tried not to be selfish but come to think, If I was – I bet my life you will still have an insult to call me. Don’t call me names just because I don’t call you any.

I am not sick and you cannot just cure me because frankly, it’s not me who needs curing – it’s the world I fucking live in. You cannot change me without changing the world around me.

For the nth fucking time, I am not the disease and I am not sick. It’s you and, the people who think they can look at me differently just because of the scars that roam my body and the blades who found home in my hands.

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