/what my mom sees.

The date of this piece is unknown. What I can remember about it's creation, though, is that it was penned via pen and paper, sometime last year when I was in the thick of my battle with depression.

Things have changed. They can never go back to the way they were before. They will not get better. Only worse.

Because here she is again. Curled up on the couch, hiding bloody wrists behind stretched jacket sleeves. Mom peeks in from the living room. She sees the papers strewn in their usual disarray across the cushions, the expression of focus that's worn as her daughter labors over the lined pages with a pencil in hand.

What my mom doesn't see is how my entire body shakes. Trembling. She doesn't see the disappearing of my fingers inside my sleeve, the scraping of my nails across the split skin. How I flinch, as a result of the delibrate contact with the wounds that aren't even hours old yet.

My mom doesn't see my fingers withdraw. She doesn't notice how the keratin of the nails are stained with blood. She doesn't see how quickly I notice, and stick my fingers in my mouth. Lavving my tongue over the tips of them, swiftly but thoroughly erasing the evidence.

Too bad I can't erase the crime.

My mom also doesn't see the flicker of undefinable emotion that occurs within the mismatch depths of my eyes. The twitch of my upper lip as it writhes back, exposing my top rows of teeth, baring their whiteness in a gesture akin to a grimace.

It hurts.

My fingers reform themselves into claws once more, and dig fiercely at what hides behind the cover of the long sleeve, scratching ruthlessly, not so much at but into the wrist, straining at the cuts, the scars.

Or, well. Not so much the wounds and the cicatrices as what lurks inside their gaping spaces, beneath the jagged, puckered marks.

I know what I'm doing when I scratch at my wrists. I'm trying to quiet the monster, urging him into silence so I can focus on keeping up the facade.

The moral of this story?
My mom only sees what I allow her to see.

Author's Note

If you're going to harp about teenage angst and the stupidity that allegedly marks depressed people and/or people who cut, then don't bother commenting. I don't need that.

I would be glad to have some support, positive comments, constructive critism and critique, though. Writing is my everything, sort of like my all-purpose band-aid, and I want to be one of the best (writers). As far as I'm concerned, I'll always be able to do better.

Reviews

[Twizzler]

First of all I would like to say I'm sorry for your pain, I can empathize with you. I also dabbled with cutting when I was around your age. I didnt do it often but I do know where you're coming from. I've had 2 different bf's who also had past experiences with cutting as well as many friends. I don't know your personal pain but I understand your state of mind. I'm not going to tell you that what you're doing is not productive and you will regret it one day because deep down you already know that. I wish you well. As for your writing, you are VERY skilled and talented. I hope that you will reach a point where you only use writing to channel your pain.