A clean slate? Impossible when you’ve done nothing. It’s stays with you, that emptiness.

I don’t know what to do. I think I’m too late.

I’ve known for weeks now. Maybe even months. It was a slip up. My observant eyes have always served me well but I think that this time they just screwed me over. As selfish as that is, it’s true.

It was a fleeting glance. A subtle hint. It could’ve been a figment of my imagination and I could’ve just let it be. But I persued it, driven by my insane curiosity.

It was confirmed. She confirmed it. I saw it for real and it was unmistakable. It was all too real and true and fresh. I couldn’t believe it. I knew it happened. I knew that many people are affected by it but her.

 My cousin. 

The girl I thought I knew well enough for my thoughts to be false. But they weren’t. I was fooling myself.

I talked to her about it once. That day. And that day only.

At the time I was the only one that knew. I don’t know about right now, if she told anyone else. But I hope and pray to God that someone else knows. I can’t do this. I can’t bear this burden.

I won’t lie to you and say that it ate at me everyday for these past few weeks, months, whatever. I didn’t let it.

I pushed it so far to the back of my mind that it almost became a false thought. In my mind I ridiculed her, saying she was being dramatic and blowing her situation out of proportion.

But I was being narrow minded. Her situation is terrible. I could never imagine myself in it.

I am breaking, slowly. I’ve put off talking to her for so long that if I even bring it up again it would be like trying to start up a car left in the junkyard ten years ago.

I feel guilty. My selfishness, my refusal to believe it has lead me to a point where I put her in harms way and ignored her vulnerability.

I don’t know what to do.

I could be the only person that has the ability to help her.

She may or may not have stopped but those scars on her wrists are not going away.

The pain will always be there and I will always be the one that didn’t give a damn about it.

I hate myself. And I should.

I need to talk to her but it’s too late. It’s too late to bring it up. Our lighthearted conversations can’t carry heavy burdens like that. I don’t even know who else knows.

I don’t want to be the only one.

I don’t know what to do.

I am the worst person to handle this. My life is practically perfect. I have no problems, no secrets, no lies that can affect me. She is broken. I can’t fix her.

And so I tried to relate myself to her. Just out of curiosity, a fresh blade cut through my untainted skin. Of course, I kept it far away from my wrists. That would be too obvious.

The burning, the blood, the internal screaming. I couldn’t understand how that would take away the pain. But I guess it just distracts you. It refocuses your pain to the physical.

Now I really don’t know how to help.

Now I’m even more lost.

I don’t know what to do.

Do I talk to her? Do I continue to ignore it? I can’t take it.

I don’t know what to do.

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