I’ve got scars on my fingers and on my arms and on my legs. They aren’t drastic. They aren’t heavy marks. they’re fine lines. barely noticeable among all the other lines on my body from wrinkles or accidents or…anything. Barely visible changes in skin tone and texture. No one sees them but me. And I remember them. Each and every one. How I felt when they happened. How much I wished I could work up the courage to make them deeper, larger, in worse places so they’d bleed more and I’d be gone. Words. Shapes. Pictures. I thought they’d make me feel better. Just simple lines when I realized they didn’t. i think about them every day. I’m really tired. I want to sleep. I want to feel better. I take my medicine like I’m told. I go to the therapist like I’m told. Nothing feels different. Nothing feels better. It hurts. Everything hurts. I’m sad. I’m scared. I hate myself. I want to die, oh my god I want to die. But I can’t. I’m too afraid. I don’t understand why he hurts us. Why he did this to us. To me. I feel so broken inside. Everything is pain and numbness simultaneously. I don’t feel real. I just want it to stop. I don’t know how to make it stop. I don’t know how to get better. I’m so tired. I’m so f****** tired.
