what is to me isn't to you.

to you, it was just pieces of clothing to laugh at,

a comedic joke for a friend.

to me, they were so much. - i held them dear.

to you, you saw them as nothing; like an insignificant spec of dust lingering on the ground. 

i saw them as everything.

arms hued with differing shades of red, - a distict coppery smell permeates the air. 

i didn't have to see it. not if i covered it;

with heavy masks, burdensome lies, faux bliss, and wardrobe.

veins hidden, lines hidden, red hidden, now scarred skin is no where.

i could ignore the overwhelming urge. it seeps into me, through the wounds that i handcrafted;

 like a small parasite, that only seems to increase in size, more and more as the seconds pass.

all i hear is a blur of embarrassment and unease, and your not to be forgotten about laughter.

what is to me, isn't to you.