red proof

You didn't love me. Not even a little. Not in the quiet way I needed— not in the way that could’ve saved me. So I carved it into skin because I needed someone to see something real. And pain? Pain shows up. Pain answers. Lines on my arms like tally marks— not counting days, but the moments I survived wanting to disappear. The blade was a lover that never left. It kissed without shame, whispered, “You are here. You are real.” They say: “Don’t.” I say: “Then help me feel something else.” Because your silence was louder than any scream I ever made into my own flesh. And maybe the blood was just a truth I could finally hold, when your love was nothing but a ghost that wouldn’t haunt me back.