SOFTIE

VERY MUCH ALIVE.

her scars weren't beautiful. they weren't things to be romanticized. they weren't a display of her seeking attention. in fact, it was attention she dreaded most, that's why she kept her scars tucked into her long sleeves for
three
whole
years
until she was able to be comfortable in her own skin. her scars weren't things to be kissed or touched, they were hers. they were her secrets. she regrets them, always wishing they weren't there. that she hadn't done it all those times but she had, and she has to accept that. people stare, and she doesn't blame them, for the eyes are always attracted to the things that don't belong. she just wishes that they wouldn't make assumptions, because those scars were from the past, and she's a different person now. the worst scars, the ones that were thick and pink and if you stroked her arm you could feel them rising from her skin, (almost as if they didn't want to be there, either). those scars were reminders of the worst days and the deadliest nights, nights where she could feel the life spilling out of her along with the blood. those nights were the ones where she could hear death knocking on her bedroom door, but she always hid under her bed and never dared to let him in. you see, people say that they're dead inside, but that's far from the truth. she would hide in the space between the bed and the floor, her breath creating faint clouds in the darkness. as death rattled the doorknob and breathed promises of sweet relief through the crack between the door and the wall, she would realize that she was very, very much alive.
and she preferred to stay that way.