my eye catches on the thin lines of scabs running across my arm.
my scabs.
my marks.
strange feelings- feelings of pride, of comfort, fill my self-shattered heart
i was the one to make those marks. they are wholly and completely mine. others might have similar marks, nails against flesh, but theirs will not be filled with the same emotion. my brew is unique, my style, my existence. other's marks aren't like mine, and can't be. no one can make these marks for me. no one had the same emotions i felt when i made them. the anguish. the fear. the self loathing, guilt, shame. the "i dont care" and "what if" and doubts. the un-thought-out, raw decisions i make in miliseconds and take back the next.
i run my fingers gently over the scratches. none of them bled when i made them, but they scabbed a little anyway. im glad they can scab without bleeding, because whenever i bleed i end up nearly passing out. (not kidding, this one time i got a cut on my finger that was super tiny but bled a lot and i couldnt see for nearly half an hour. it was smaller than a centimeter! very weird experience, too)
the texture does something. soothes me, i guess, when i touch it. comforts me in some weird, probably not normal or okay way. whenever i scratch my arm and dont get scabs, i get upset. im not exactly sure why. maybe because i have no proof of my feelings. no proof that i can cry, or hurt, or feel. no proof of being human. no proof of being alive or real.
i am soooooo messed up haha.
YOU ARE READING
Im depressed, srry
Randomdont read if youre prone to grammatical errors, depression, the like. if anyone wants me to mark this as mature i will, but the only thing to be wary of is sad thoughts i was gonna put humor for the genre, to be ironic, but i dont want someone who's...
