She is a hidden me

 Pressing the blade to her wrist she feels a release like no other could create, everyday a battle ground in her supposed to be sanctuary. The people she's around don't ask why, they don't realize the pain she harbors in a heart that's broken to the phrase "I'm okay, the feeling will pass."  
 
 She tries to imagine a world that's much happier than the one she was placed into as a gift, but simply can't. Due to the fact the scars that brittle her her soft skin remind her, it must have been a mistake in the books, why else would she want to see the blood that floods her veins to be in her sink? Why else would she run her fingertips across the dried jagged lines and find comfort?  
 
 There are a few in who she confines in, few that can see beneath the mask of failure she has tried so hard to maintain. It only takes a few breaths to say "Help me" yet she chooses to waste what little energy she has left, to hope for others to feel nothing but a pure serenity. She wastes her breath to a lie crueler to the bitter feeling of a blade dragging into the skin of an angels heart.  
 
 "I am okay" followed by the fakest  smile, yet everyone seems to believe it's so real. People around her look up to her so she pushes them away eventually worried they will become attached, someday to meet the fate of a bloodied wrist and a goodbye that was half felt.
 
 Or worse maybe she is afraid to become attached to someone else? Afraid of the commitment, not because she feels they aren't worthy. No she doesn't self love in such a way. More of the fact she's afraid she won't be worthy of them. The fact that hiding a pain that is only felt inside is harder to send away then a heart break in the heat of July.  
 
 A pleasure or a pledge of a death under your own hand? A secret "Save me" or a hidden "Kill me" Yet a silence stuck in the throat of a beautiful believer of never ending  goodbyes, stomachs full of anxious butterflies and tragic deaths that makes no one cry.