As I look at my arm I feel the pain and satisfaction as when I cut but my arms aren't covered in new cuts just old one I'm trying to move on but every time I look at my wrist I remember all of it the cruel words the pain I felt comes rushing back. I can still see the faint lines where a blade once met my skin where once it was red where once I thought the satisfaction was worth the pain. It's a part of me my scars aren't fading there still here waiting for the next time I look down and I want to cry
