She asked me, "why are you so determined to find all the things that are wrong with you?"
She asked me why I'm always so fixated on my broken parts.
Why I'm always finding new words to label each individual scar.
She asked me, "why are you so sure that you're broken?"
I struggled to explain the emptiness inside me.
All of the quiet nights and burning skin, the salt that fell against my lips. The aching of my ribs.
I could of told her about the teeth that bit into my skin, the hands that wrapped around my throat.
I could of told her about my mind, but I just couldn't find the words.
People say that writers are good at expressing themselves, but I can't help but disagree.
I could write until my fingers bleed, but no matter how many words that spill out there will always be another to take it's place.
There are so many words that I don't know yet.
So many emotions that there are no words for.
I wish I could let her see inside my mind.
Sit in the darkest corners. See the words written there. See the people that exist there.
All the pages of mindless scribbles, rough lines and sharp edges.
Of the soft curves that feel like an angels gaze turning cold at the sight of me...
She asked me, "how can you heal if you're always picking at your wounds?"
As if there is any other part of me.
YOU ARE READING
The diary of Seth Alexander
Non-Fictionas the title suggests, this is legit going to be my diary. and yes, most diaries are supposed to be secret, but I have always been an open book. I like to pretend to be mysterious, but the people around me will all tell you that I am am someone who...
