the stain of scars
i admitted that i was over her. "the past is the past
and she isn't worth lingering over anymore." but
every time i see my scars, they whisper a different
story. they remind me of when i first brought a razor
to skin and how it soon became a knife and then
a blade from a shaving razor that i broke apart
to allow myself to bleed even more (just for her).
"because i'll see her again and i'll just have
to face the fact that she doesn't care." but
can't she see that a part of me wants her still
to care? why else would i still be bleeding, crying,
and vomiting? but then again, there are still times
when no one cares and if there was a gun,
i'd surely be dead and buried six-feet under.
if that's what it takes to show her how much
she means to me then maybe i need to find
a gun (or cut even deeper to let myself bleed
dry). and she doesn't know that a week or
so ago, i cut deep enough to where i stained
too many towels and stained my bedroom floor.
"but i do this because of what she has done to me."
silence isn't the best for a girl like me because
it drove me to the edge where i wanted so many times
to bring the gun to my head (and a part of me still wants to).
i'm tired of people fucking pretending to care just
to make me feel better. i'm tired of sensing the
hesitation and tension when my step-mother asks
me why i had the need to cut once again too many
times (because i was ((am?)) apparently "doing so well").
and no, they don't know that it is she that continues
to make me bleed. and i feel so dirty where even
washing doesn't take away the stain of scars on my wrists.
i want her to see what she is doing to me (even though she
never bothered to help me when she saw my first scars).
she was never worthy enough to be my best friend and
i couldn't see that until i had scars etched into skin,
a finger down my throat and tears denting a path in my cheeks.
February 4, 2006