Can You Love My Cuts?

    I have scars on my body, stories I'll never tell. I've got secrets that are just bursting from my lips, silently, or out loud. But the problem or the solution is that I'm never with anyone when I scream my problems, when I' scream my secrets. I hide everything- not only the pain that you've caused, but how much a little thing could affect someone. I'm sorry, Mom. I'm not skinny enough. I'm not girly enough. I'm not smart enough, because apparently if I don't spend every waking moment reading, I'm dumb. I'm stupid.
   Well, I've got news for you, Mom. I'm in Advanced Maths, regardless of the fact that I hate it. I'm in Advanced Classes for every class. But I'm still stupid, aren't I?
   Yes. Of course.
   All my life, I've wanted to run away. Show them. I've wanted to scream. Yell. Show them my scars, yell that it's their fault. Make a big deal out of something, anything. Do something I want, just once. I wanted something drastic to happen, like my father to die, and I could run to California or Alaska or something. I could do it. I know I can. I could bring everything I care about.
   But what do I care about? I'm not sure. I care about less than most people, other than numbing myself. If I ran away, I could camp out at some library and use the computer and read books there and stash some snacks from their book group luncheons and dinners. Or I could get a job a McDonald's the second I turn fifteen, or maybe I'd meet a group of other runaways and we'd become friends or some **** like that.
   Who would want to be friends with a girl with more cuts than friends, more razors than confidence, more pain than beauty? No one.
   And that's what scares me, because don't want to be forever alone. If you've read my earlier posts, you may remember how I take a fancy to my brother's best friend. I've always liked his friends, because you know: Two years older, smarter, happier.... But I feel like this is different. I actually partly care what he thinks, I'm always trying to look good around him, I make myself comfortable around his family, friendly even. It's like I'm a different person around him, and I don't get it. It makes me forget about everything for awhile, especially because his mother is my mom's best friend, so we always see each other, and he goes out of his way to say hi to me and be nice, unlike every other human being I've met.
   Even he doesn't seem to notice my cuts, my deep-sinking pain-and he's been in the same room as me while a had a deep cut bleeding through my sweatshirt.
   I don't want to live in a mental institution, but I feel like it may be not my choice if any one finds out who I am and calls a SUICIDE HOTLINE or something.
   Which reminds me. I don't want you guys to die. Because then I'll be completely and utterly alone, even more than I was before.
   I know it's so pathetic that I keep on repeating "I don't want" and "I want" over and over. I'm pathetic, and selfish, I know. That's why I'm cutter. I want to be able to control myself and my life, maybe by cutting it short. There it is again.

 I WANT, I WANT, I WANT, I WANT BUT THAT'S CRAZY 

I WANT, I WANT, I WANT, BUT THAT'S NOT ME

 I WANT TO BE LOVED BY YOU (but that's never gonna happen).

    Who could love someone who's dead inside, practically? Who could love someone who understands the quote:  I don't know why they call it heartbreak? Every other part of my body feels broken, too. ?

Who could love someone so imperfect? 

   The problem with cuts is that there's so many problems underneath that it just doesn't work to keep putting band aids over them. And I know, I have to learn to deal with mine before someone else can. 

   So I doubt I'll ever have anyone, especially the people who I wish I had, because they deserve so much more.