I HAVE TO STOP CUTTING. I know I will carry my scars with me until forever comes around. I have accepted that. Each scar created to drown out the screaming, to suppress a memory, to hold back a tear, to know that I am alive, that this life is not a nightmare I cannot awake from cannot be consoled and calmed from. Each scar carries with it a memory I had tried to reject, but you cannot reject the past, you cannot escape it, as if embedded in stone, and now in my flesh. Cover them up the voices have said, ‘hide your scars, don’t let them ask questions! They don’t care they only patronize.’ ‘Your WRONG!’ I yell every time, knowing I never believe it. ‘They just want to help me, without knowing how.’ I whisper to myself every time, hoping that one day I may believe my own positive thoughts. Only the negative remains, and yet I walk the halls at school with a shaded smile, it is a real smile, sometimes quivering but always real, and strong. I hold my head up and think that one day it will be better, and I still have laughter and friendship in my life, even though my house is unbearable, I know as long as I can live outside of my head for a few hours each day, I may be able to keep my sanity just long enough to get through this.
Read Anonymous’ poem ‘Why?‘