Dani-Claw

“What’s on your arm? What’s on your thigh?” I scratched myself, darling—but I will be fine. “What’s on your wrist? And why do you cry?” Oh, silly—they’re signals, they’re my warning signs. “Why are there tears coming out from your eyes?” They show that I’m breaking. My laugh’s a disguise. “What’s on your forearm? What’s on your mind?” I’ll be okay, darling. I just wish to die.