how man of you can honestly say

that you like me?

none? no, you don't count,

you don't know *shit* about me.

"i know-"

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 stare.

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.