She caresses her arm with a razor.
She is silently screaming for help.
For someone to notice her and all of her despair.
For anyone to ask her if she is okay.
For someone to see the crimson streaks staining her arm.
For anyone to wipe away the blood, the tears, the past.
But everyone walks past her.
Eyes steadily staring straight ahead away from her mess.
Focusing on their own lives, their own issues.
But she will claw for their attention until her hands are bloodied and blistered.
She just needs to hear a voice that isn’t in her head mocking her, taunting her.
She needs to know that it will all be okay.