how man of you can honestly say
that you like me?
none? no, you don't count,
you don't know *shit* about me.
no, you don't.
you may know a few scattered facts,
but you don't know their *meaning*.
you think i'm weird for keeping track of the days
since May 31.
well i'm sorry, i didn't know that
not cutting myself
makes me weird.
you think i'm a freak for how i dress.
i'm just so happy that there are some days
when i actually somewhat like how i look.
you think i'm gay, straight, bi, whatever.
i just don't fit your god-damned fucking labels.
you think i'm a girl.
me body is never yours to judge.
i told my touch group my scars
are my favourite thing about me.
in a way, that's true. but it is also
one of the biggest lies i've ever told.
because i hate them.
i hate myself for never going deeper
never cutting more, and
for ever cutting at all.
but i love them.
they are my story,
and mine is not an easy story to write down.
but i did it.
my scars are the best and worst parts of my story
scrawled across my skin,
neater than my writing ever is.
and all you see
is a reason to pity me.
"oh, i'm so sorry," you say.
you make it obvious when you've seen them.
you give me this face
that makes me want to punch a tree.
because fuck you.
don't you dare pity me. you aren't allowed.
and while you're busy not pitying me,
find something else to do besides
pretending you know anything about me.