If I go into The Darkness.

Today the counsellor talked about cutting.

I started crying, I don't even know why.

She asked to see them and I refused.

Why did I refuse?

Their months old.

I haven't cut in ages.

But I still refused?

They don't even look bad, as if I only traced my skin with the razor blade.

They look wimpy.

I don't like that.

I'm not a wimp.

I want to tell her everything.

But I know, if I do, she will tell someone.

'How many are there then?'

'Around twenty maybe'

'That's lots.'

She said it all so sympathetically.

I like her.