there's a certain feeling you get when staring at the angry red lines on your skin, scarred over on top of each other over and over again. a mess of skin, old and new, the same pain making the same marks.
why do i do it? i ask myself.
why must i hurt myself when others hurt me?
because i am weak i'll say. i do it to show myself that this is pain, and this will happen every time i allow that individual back into my life.
i have bled the most for him. i have cried the most for him. but i have not hated myself the most for him. that must be a win in some sort of fucked up way.
i was born broken. i was born to be a mess. and everyone in my life says it. every man that has touched me has said it, as they leave they'll give me the same remarks. i know i am no good.
but i wanted to believe i was worth something. that i could do some good. perhaps i wasn't meant to make it this far. or even have anyone by my side at all. of course, you're happy. with some blonde girl on your hip, the complete opposite of me. how could i have not seen it coming. but my heart no longer aches for you, though it's been a week.
i couldn't care less than you've done this to me again. a fool i was to believe your lies that you once cared for me.
the only person who cares for me is myself.
i'll laugh when i see these scars on my skin, fading over as my heart and mind forget the pain that caused them. it can't get any worse can it? have i paid my price in full yet? i thought i did but it seems i was wrong.
my scars will remain a part of me for as long as i live.
