Cuts
"No, you have it all wrong-I don't cut myself because I'm trying to kill myself. I cut myself because I'm fighting so hard to stay alive."
He hurts himself at night. Not because he's tired of feeling the pains and stresses of Starfleet life, but because he can no longer feel them.
Each night he pulls out that razor blade, dragging it ever so lightly across the tender skin of his forearms. He doesn't cut deep, no he only pierces the skin just enough for the skin to puff red and form a single droplet of blood.
He doesn't cut deep, no, he only cuts the surface.
The pain that comes from the stinging of irritated skin is enough for him. And it's not because he's afraid to cut deeper, no he can slice down if he wanted to, but that'd leave scars, scars that he can't hide forever. No, these delicate slices heal quickly and scab within days, and soon there's not even a trace of a cut there.
But why?
Deeper cuts only cause more attention, he doesn't want that. He also doesn't want to do it because of what he might feel, or in better words, what he might not feel.
Cutting deeper is supposed to sharpen the pain, to make it last. But he's cut deep before, he's drawn his blood across the bathroom floor, it doesn't make him feel, it makes him become numb and dizzy.
He doesn't want that, he wants to feel something.
So he plays a game, drawing along his skin. He pushes the blade in and slices gently across, he tests how far he can cut without scarring, he tests just how much pressure his skin can withhold before breaking away.
He doesn't cut deep, because he doesn't want people to find out, to ask him why there are scars trailing up and down his arms and legs like an endless labyrinth. He doesn't cut deep, because light cuts fade before anyone notices.
He cuts lightly, because even though they're not as painful, they hurt the most.