My body's a mess.
A disgusting hurt field.
My thighs are the worst.
With the blemishes they yield.
One for cutting.
One for hitting.
The cuts have faded,
I put the blade away,
and trashed the rubber band.
But I can't put away my fists,
they're always there to stay.
Bruising has become my new addiction,
and I wish it hadn't.
YOU ARE READING
Nobody Was Meant to See
Poetry[Trigger Warning, please be safe when reading] They aren't supposed to know. They aren't meant to read these poems that I'm writing. I've concealed them for a reason. -Shitty poems about how I feel-
