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He clawed and he scratched and everything felt wrong, it felt wrong and bad and he hated it, he wanted to rip his skin off his body, he didn’t want it anymore, no matter how many layers of clothes he put on it still wasn’t right and he knew it and everyone else around him knew it to, he couldn’t hide and he just wanted to become bone, he wanted to destroy himself and exist with no physical body, he didn’t feel any connection to it other than the knowledge that it was his and it would always be his no matter how much he hated it and he couldn’t get rid of it until he was dead, and everyone would always see him a certain way because of how they saw this terrible fucking vessel his soul resided in.
He could see blood on his fingers and he didn’t stop, he didn’t know what was bleeding, he felt pain all over it was so bad he wanted to just stop already, he wanted it over, this was a fucking waste of his time any moment he spent like this but he couldn’t get himself to get over it like he so badly wanted to, you didn’t just get over these things and he knew that and he hated it when people told him to because he couldn’t, he just couldn’t, and he knew that his friends would never understand and he was glad they didn’t, so glad they didn’t because even in the tiniest relief of having someone to talk to that he knew and was friends with he didn’t want them to have to go through this horror.