Scarred
Lately, I've been looking at the scars on my arms and legs. Some are small and fully healed and others were so deep that it was impossible for them to heal correctly. I run my fingers along the pink, raised skin thinking about all the times I wished for more courage to press down harder. And then I wonder, how could I have ever done something like this to myself? How could the pain in my life seem so imbearable that I would cut myself up like a damn Virginia ham?
No one asks about them anymore. Mostly they are just ignored. I don't mind though because I try to forget that they are even there. I wonder what kind of story they will tell after I pass on.
The scariest part of it all is that even when I'm happy, I still think about It. Is the saying true - Once a cutter, always a cutter?
No one asks about them anymore. Mostly they are just ignored. I don't mind though because I try to forget that they are even there. I wonder what kind of story they will tell after I pass on.
The scariest part of it all is that even when I'm happy, I still think about It. Is the saying true - Once a cutter, always a cutter?