One. Two. Three. Four.

Four painstakingly carved letters, each red and swollen, stand on my arms. I was hoping this would help me cry, but as usual, I am wrong. I’ve always been afraid to break the skin on account of infection, and many mock me as a wannabe. My pain is real, but so is my fear. I don’t want to be sick, just hurt for a few hours.

One. Two. Three. Four.

I run my fingers over the raised skin. It hurts to touch them, but that’s for the better. Maybe I can work a few tears out. I really wish I could cry. I would give my whole left arm for a few healthy tears.

One. Two. Three. Four.

These letters aren’t a name, or something pointless. I only do this when I am genuinely depressed, not for attention. No, I don’t scratch just anything into my arm. I write what I am much in need of.

H. E. L. P.

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