u/clemondroppp

Theres times that I look at the scars and realize that my skin and soul will never look the same. The times that I've spent bandaging myself up in the hopes that someone might do it for me, only to realise that i'm to afraid to let someone see that part of me. I knew exactly what I was doing when I began cutting, and found solace in the sensations that ran through my body with each mark I left. At first they embodied relief. It was as if each cut was a vent to release the pressure of my emotions from under my skin. And soon they became a habit, and then an addiction. And before I knew it, my whole body was covered. The ghost of the razor I used followed me around like a shadow, and everything became a reminder of the failure, that was me. I began to mourn for the girl that I could've been, and the things that that girl could've done, had she not been so conceited. Selfish, is how I began to see the scars. How dare I mar this body thats caging my soul? How dare I touch somthing that dosn't belong to me? i tried to convince myself that I was just a teenager, but can you truly just 'be a teenager' for your whole life? There has to be a breaking point. An oasis in the midst of a harsh and desolate world. Some kind of reprieve that reasures me that I haven't lost myself. That I was still the girl who cried while getting shots. That I was still the girl who climbed in bed with my mother to be held, and loved in a way that every child should be. That I was still the girl that taught her puppies the abc's, when she herself, couldn't even pronounce her own name. That I was still the girl who played dress up and danced in the living room to taylor swift. That I was still the girl who was loved. That I was still the girl who was just an annoying little sister, a perfect daughter, an ambitious student, and a best friend. That I was still me. Or at least, what used to be me. Theres parts of me that watch that little girl, and think about how stupid and foolish she was. And then theres parts of me that want nothing more than to be that naive again. And so standing there, in the kitchen light by the sink, at 9 p.m on a tuesday night, I began to cry, as I stared down at the scars that covered my arms. Not because they hurt. Not because they would be there the rest of my life. But because of the scars left on that little girls soul. Because of the hell she was put through that stole away her innocence. Because that little girl was, and always will be a part of me. And so I mourn for her. And the life she never got to live.