I looked at the scars on my thighs and thought about the ones on my arms. I wonder what my dad thinks when he sees them. I'll ask him one day. But strangely a wicked thought entered. I want more. It's like a game. Whoever has the most scars wins. Because they were in the most pain. My lousy two on my thighs and how many so on my arm wasn't enough to dictate my pain. But no one know how many times I've really cut my arm up. Why can't I be satisfied with that? Or my growth? Why can't I be okay with the fact I haven't self harmed in 3 years? Why am I more comfortable with pain and sadness? Happiness is scary. Cuz it's fleeting.
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We Are the Normal Ones: Memoirs of a Fallen Human
PoesíaWhat goes on inside the mentally stricken mind?
