it was the faint whisper coming from the blades i kept hidden stored away like how a smoker keeps a singular cigarette when they quit
the scars had faded long since but the remembrance of that comforting pain had not
in early medicine those so-called doctors practiced bloodletting in which they cut a person and let them bleed to free the demons plaguing them and i want to know what was so different about what i did compared to that
i read a book where a woman sliced words in her skin and then turned to ballpoint pens as a filler and i guess that will just have to do for now
the scars are like lined paper as i jot down my words writing the number of days i've been alive with an 'i will be okay' or a bold black 'i will never be good enough' or anything just to get the thought out of my head
