I don't cut for death, I cut to feel -
to prove there's something left that's real.
No one sees the marks I make,
the quiet ways my hands still shake.

They say, "It's just for attention," but I hide.
They'd never guess how much I've cried.
It's not for show. It's not for art.
It's a scream that lives beneath my heart.

Red lines fade, but pain stays deep,
it haunts my thoughts, it steals my sleep.
I wish I knew a softer way
to say I'm breaking every day