If I killed myself, I wouldn’t want anyone to know about me for a long time. But there’s this small, selfish, part of me that wants my death to be more than a tumblr post. I feel like I have to prove something. But I’m nothing special.
It’s a significant thing, when someone pulls up their sleeve and shows their scars to you. They’re showing the side of them that no one sees, that no one gets. Please, don’t hurt someone after they let you in like that. You’re their heart.
It’s nice to have someone to talk to, but there’s something different about the silence when you’re crying and they hold you. They’re saying everything you need to hear, without even saying anything.
It’s not that I don’t have anyone to talk to, I have a few who would understand in fact. I just don’t want them to know. I want them to believe that I’m better, and happy. I don’t want my problems to bother them.
