It's been eight months since I branded my skin with my lighters.

The writing in the stars pointed me towards the moon. I was beginning to heal. Thoughts of suicide no longer pervade my consciousness as much as they used to.

Although, in an instant the stars scrambled. They jostled and jousted, fought and exploded.

They no longer led me to the moon.

They no longer led me to you.

And now for the first time in eight months I want to self-harm.