Scars line my arm, my stomache, and my ankle. They are the after mark of inner and outer pain. I put them there on my own and with my own intentions. Each scar is a regret as well as is not. They are my cry for help. Yet people see it as a cry for attention. Can't they see? If I wanted attention I wouldn't have covered up and hidden for the longest of times. I need help. I need comfort. A shoulder to cry on, one I can trust. Ninety-four, thats how many scars I have. A number i'd like to stay at. But still I think about cutting when things are hard. Thanks to the people around me i've been able to avoid it. But what if they aren't always there? What if I overflow with feelings? Let's just hope, the result isn't more added scars.