I want to find the me who didn't love me and hold her.
Tell her that everything is going to be okay and that
razors won't haunt your life forever.
Because I couldn't hear the word cut without flinching.
The word razor made my skin crawl and hide in a corner petrified of being hurt again.
Recovery won't come easy.
And not clearly.
It will sneak up on you and fill your head slowly without you realizing.
The way society did with their distorted visions of beautiful.
The way anorexia did
and the anxiety,
and the depression.
Fuck it.
The way everything they diagnosed you with took over your perspective.
But this time the thoughts will be safe.
Of the people you love.
Of yes, I can do this.
Planning your tattoos to cover your scars.
Yes, scars.
Not wounds.
Not red.
Healed.
Till you get to the point where you no longer count how many days clean you are.
Because you no longer see a point in counting till forever.
YOU ARE READING
Thinking
PoetryI am a ball of different thoughts. Positive, Negative. Here is where I'll dump them. Whatever I'm going through is what I'll be writing so there may be periods of poems just about a certain topic, I apologize.
