Scared and scarred

I've relapsed. Relapsed hard.
My skin, is scarred. Not at scarred as my mind.
Ankles, thighs, hips, arms, wrists, knees. Everywhere basically.
It has become a habit. A bad habit. I'm scared of not being able to stop.
I'm aware of how addictive it is. But it's my addiction. My problem. My life. My way of surviving.
It calms me, and I like to look at it. As creepy as it sounds, the sight of blood, cuts, marks, scars, bruises - it's...how can I describe it? Calming? Maybe. I don't know how to put it.
If you're a self-harmer you probably know what I'm talking about. And yes, it's difficult to admit that I enjoy looking at such things, but I do.
A year went by. My scars had faded, and my mind had healed a little.
It's worse than ever now. My mind is bleeding, and so is my skin. My thoughts are black, and my days are black. My mood is dark, and my life is dark as well.
Searching for someone to talk to, but no ones there:
It's like screaming for help at the top of my lungs, but no one answers, they just act like nothing.
It's like drowning, and everyone is standing three feet away, and tell me to swim.
Hiding my depression in a way that I want someone to notice that I'm not well. Maybe it's buried too deep within. I wish that no one finds out, and I wish that someone does. It's contradiction.
Finger tips running up and down my arms. Thin lines break the smooth skin, like tiny little speed-bumps on a freshly paved road.
The shattered idea of a true love softly kissing my burning skin. Too romantic to ever come true.
Not much is ever going to come true. If anything. No sign of hope. No sign of anyone caring. What am I even doing here?