Words That Used to Twist My Tongue

67.

(**TRIGGER WARNING!!!** *SELF HARM, INSECURITY, AND FEAR OF BEING ABANDONED DUE TO SELF HARM, THESE ARE ALL FACTORS IN THIS POEM, DO NOT READ IF THIS TRIGGERS YOU!!*)

I hate the

 number 67. 

I hate the appearance

Of my right thigh.

67 is not new,

For each scar was born,

On the night of 

December 29th 2023.

But 67,

 Though old,

Is ugly.

67 little lines

Born on the same night

To 'decorate' my light

Olive skin.

They would look

Like snow on my

Dark olive arms,

So my light thigh,

Was easy to hide.

Who knew

In a matter of 

seconds

I could inflict

67 On myself?

I think about this moment often

,And the moments before.

She tried to stop me,

But she forgets I have more than one.

Taking one away does nothing.

I didn't believe i broke my skin,

So i did not stop.

I cried before, But she did not.

I cry now,

Remembering the tying 

Of the knot.

And i worry,

That my dear lover,

Will look at me differently

If he sees my 67.

I am scared,

The closest souls

To mine, Will frown upon me

For exposing my

Darker times.

I cannot wear

The clothes I wish

In fear of my 67.

My 67 is ugly,

A curse, a dying wish,

A capture,

Am I alone?

I hope I am not,

But I hope you don't

Share the scars

Of 67.

I hate 67.

And I hate myself

For choosing67.