On the bus, I tap my foot in slow, small, circles. The girl sitting across the bus from me watches, tapping her finger every time my foot completes a circle.
I wonder, if she's doing that consciously or not, but don't care to ask.
In my head, I see wrists being held down, spread over a pillow, almost-bruises forming where no one's going to look for them. I stop.
"Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it..." My head tries whispering this to itself carefully, easily, with every turn of the foot, but I end up stopping altogether and squeezing my eyes shut tight.
The act itself of closing my eyes does nothing, as far as making it go away goes, but I pretend it does and bite my lip until I feel a sore, raw pain set in.
Then I open my eyes, thankful for the sunglasses I have taken to wearing.

Some things...they hurt more.