Thistle and Weeds (Bottoms up, those little yellow pills, and the burning fire...Part 3)

The burning fire.

How can you look at me and think I'm normal? All I see is a mess ready to fall apart at any second. Those burns on my wrist, the fading fake smile. Am I really that convincing that I don't need help? That everything's perfect and fine. I want, no, I need someone to just see through the happy facade and tell me that even though things aren't great right now, everything will be okay. I want someone to actually notice when my smile doesn't quite reach my eyes.
I've adapted. Only two scars on my wrist, only from...emergencies. I've found somewhere that doesn't scar. Unlike many others, I don't do it to draw attention to myself. The less people wonder, the better. I think that subconsciously I want at least someone to know, but I don't want it to be as easy as looking at my wrist. Any idiot could figure it out eventually, or at least make assumptions.