Hiding

I should be afraid of them catching me, I should be afraid of them finding out.
But I’m not. Why? Because I know that they’ll just be sitting around “caring” about me, while I sit in my room cutting.
Why should they bother actually checking in on me? I’m seeing a counselor now! And well, I’ll be damned if that doesn’t just fix everything for everyone. (sarcasm)

Oh, so you search my room, take my razors. Gee, what a great idea.
THAT will stop me.
Because after all, I’m not smart enough to hide a few where I know that you’ll never find them. (and even if I wasn’t that smart, as you obviously assume…it’s called stores, where they sell things, like razorblades)
So search my room every damn day if you want, I could care less.

And when all is said and done. Nothing will have changed.

So stop trying to change me.
Because you can’t.
Let me be.
Let me cut.
What’s it hurting?

Even if I stopped.
You wouldn’t treat me any different.
So whether or not I am cutting doesn’t actually matter to anyone but me.
The truth doesn’t matter. I don’t matter.
Even if I was okay, it wouldn’t matter.
So why try? Why bother?