TW! ink made of hurt

I used to carve the truth into my own arms. Wrote "hate"  where love should have lived. Wrote "pain" where no one believed mine. Blades don't lie. They leave proof- that I felt something, anything, everything. I drew pictures too- because sometimes art is the only way to make sorrow visible. The sting was silence breaking. The blood was ink. My skin became a journal because no one ever read my eyes. I didn't want to die. I just wanted to feel seen. To scream without a sound. To leave a mark before I disappeared completely.