Her head hurts from falling down in the shower earlier that morning. More than that, it's caused by lack of food, lack of sleep, lack of sanity. She doesn't remember what happened to that thread, the thin little line she thought she could keep track of. It's gone now and she keeps looking like a lost child, hoping that the toy can be recovered. Only it isn't a toy. This is her life, her grasp on reality. Her head hurts from falling down in the shower, because now there's a cut from the ceramic tile. A memoir.

Her ears hurt from the words. Words people think she doesn't take seriously, words that ultimately make her who she is. She knows they think she doesn't understand, that she's so wrapped up in herself to notice the things going on around her. The lives of her friends, the lives of her family. She's aware of it all, helplessly aware of the fact that she cannot do a fucking thing to fix anything, so she stays silent.

Her mouth hurts from speaking. From trying to explain to people, from the lies that spew forth without realization. From the words she professes as a method of protection. Whether it is for herself or for others, it's unclear. She's sure they assume it's for herself. And she doesn't argue it because she's all but lost touch with all the people that matter to her anyway. They've moved on to people less selfish, less apathetic. When they ask, she speaks. Her mouth hurts from trying to talk because she knows they shouldn't listen.

Her legs hurt from running. Running away from her life, running away from everyone. It's much easier to pretend, to feign some sort of contentment because people don't ask. People have other people to worry about. She runs from the questions, skirts around issues and shuts everyone off. Her legs have grown tired, but she keeps running into a dizzy oblivion.

Her hands hurt from the scars. From the blade of a razor pressing against her skin, from the tears against the blood. This is what hurts the least. This is what makes her feel, what makes her know that she can feel something other than selfish. Even though she is. The cuts dance across her arm, at first, fresh and lively but as time passes they move into submission. They move beneath the new scars, the new cuts. Her hands hurt from the scars, but this is the hurt she cannot bear to be without.

Her body hurts from the truth. The fact that this is not a story. This is nothing. This is the only truth she knows anymore. This is the truth of selfishness. This is my apology. An apology unheard.