From The Attic (poetry)

Do We Make It Out?

"What are those?" I trace over Lola's arm as I see the white lines. She looks up at me and smiles sadly.

"I was a very unhappy child." She says, removing her arm away from my hands.

"I hate them." She whispers, this time not looking at me. "I wish they could just disappear."

"Why?"

"Because-" She whispers.

"You shouldn't be ashamed of your scars, I know maybe you wish you didn't have them but they show that you survived, that you made it out."

"Did I?" She replies and after that I don't say anything back because do we ever really make it out of the things that break us, do we survive them or do we burn to ashes and be born again anew. That's how I feel, all the time.

Sometimes I just miss it, the me I was before everything, before growing up. I remember how happy I was as a child, my parents loved me so much maybe it's the reason I feel it so deeply now that they're no longer the parents I knew.