TRIGGER WARNING: Self harm & suicidal thoughts.
CONTINUE AT YOUR OWN RISK
These scars are from
before.
From a time of desperation,
standing in front of a mirror,
chewing the tab of a LaCroix can in my teeth,
making it into something sharp enough.
Because I was desperate,
because I spent the entirety of Thanksgiving
nursing my scarred-up arm.
Because I would fall asleep thinking
about the knives downstairs.
About just the right
veins to hit.
Because I didn't know what to do,
except turn myself into a
canvas
of what my mother likes to call
scratches
because she doesn't want to think
about what it truly was.
As far as she's concerned,
it was all my
inability
to have self control.
As far as I'm concerned,
it was all my
inability
to feel the pain I felt inside.
I thought that maybe
it would disappear,
if I just made the pain outside
bigger.
I thought a lot of stupid shit then.
But here I am,
two years and
two relapses later.
Staring at my scars,
staring at the knife I keep in my room.
Wanting, again, to take away the pain.
Knowing, again, that adding to my scars
will only make everything worse.
Knowing that there's a part of me,
that wants everything to be worse.
because maybe then, I'd have a reason
for feeling the way that I do
