"all of our scars will still remain, but we've learned
that if we'll just open up the wounds and share them
then soon they start to heal."

- thrice, for miles


these white walls are bleeding crimson, reminding me of when i ble(e)d.
then there were no more dreams, only nightmares that left me spiraling
down into ( b r o k e n ) emptiness. my mouth would open but no words
would escape — i was surrounded by silence although there were people
around me and their questions resonate within me, "what happened?"
"do you have a cat?" "why do you do that?"

the answers sounded like, "oh nothing." "no, i don't." "i do it
because i'm stupid." their looks pressed into my memory,
burning reminders of why this means so much to me.

the stars fell into open windows and i wish(ed) for one moment
that i could be suspended in time instead of bleeding caused by
self-inflicted wounds. although bleeding from forearms and wrists
felt better, it was a way to control what i couldn't. and i learned
even more when i was choking on acid, burning in my throat but
their compliments were nice and through smiles they said,
"you look great." "you've lost so much weight."

the only thing i could do was smile, nod, and say, "thank you" as
i returned to vomit, tears, and blood i thought were my only comfort.

then i found myself sitting on a couch in a stranger's room.
i was crying as i rubbed scars raw, afraid of the word "love"
i carved into skin. blurred vision of dim lights reflect in my memory
as time passed and i lied through gritted teeth when she asked
why i began cutting myself. i shrugged it off but said nothing,
only sat there, playing with loose ends of the pillow's thread.

and i was sixteen-years old: choking, crying, bleeding
but they never thought it would happen to me. at one time
smiles came easily and there was no pretending; no hiding
wrists or forearms, no hiding my body behind baggy clothes.
but in that time, i vaguely remember smiles and laughter
coming from myself. i would rather have drowned myself
than to have faked any more about myself and it burned to see
the hurt in my father's eyes as he wondered what happened
to his little baby girl. mother likely could have had a heart
attack when i told her over the phone, "mom ... i cut myself.
please don't be mad at me i just can't help it."


author's note: i'm opening and sharing the memories i would rather forget. it's time for there to be no more of this inside of me. please, expect more of this from me.