Sleeves

815 14 10
                                    


(Warning: mentions self-harm. Please read with caution if this is a sensitive topic for you)


Peeling off my clothes, I shiver. His bathroom is a jungle of plants and random sequins everywhere. Still, somehow, it's perfect. Photos of his friends adorn the walls. This must be his 'holiday home' considering how personalised it is. 

I open my bag, and pull out makeup wipes and shorts, dumping my shirt and jeans. Checking in the mirror isn't a fun task, alas I carry it out anyways. My skin is pale and tired, scars running up the lengths of my body- some natural, some not. We all have our scars, and whether intentional or not, they tell a story of our life. My scars tell stories of failures, hurt, joy, pain, life, death, memories and forgetting. I used to cover them, but now? Now I know they're just a part of my story. Perhaps not positive, wholesome chapters of my story, but still chapters. You can't ignore or forget chapters of your story if you want to create new ones, no matter how painful- you just have to address them. 

Running my fingers over the long scar running the length of my forearm, I wince at the touch of my cold fingertips. I remember the day it happened. August 12th. I was at a friend's house a few hours before. I had a massive crush on him and decided to tell him. He called me a freak and told me that a fat cow like me could never be loved. I was 14, and it hurt so bad. It was irrational, thinking back, but at the time the pain of the knife felt like a release. 

I unhook my bra, stuffing it into the front pocket of the bag then pull my f/c hoodie over my bare skin. Pulling my shorts on, I turn back to the mirror. The damp makeup wipe feels like ice, but it's refreshing and addicting- like a drug that causes you pain the next day but fills you with an unnatural pleasure while you're consuming it. My skin looks clear and brighter now, although my eyes still look dull and tired. Pulling my h/l hair into some sort of messy-updo I open the door and pace toward's Conan's bed.



sorry if this is short... or traumatic :) lol

If ur sad or need to talk to someone- please reach out, whether it's 2 me, a helpline, family, a friend, a teacher or ur pet. 

Or... listen to Conan Gray's Overdrive :) and NES

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