Inspired by reading replies to a " To Write Love On Her Arms" bulletein
Is this solace?
Is this peace?
In this space between the open sides of this cut, this gash dug by some inhuman creature... Is peace there?
Is this relief?
Is this what escape is supposed to feel like?
I don't really know anymore. Its been so long since I felt I could forget my pain, my struggles, without carving a mark into my skin.
This blade was supposed to be my glue, supposed to be my needle and thread to sew the shell of myself back into something that resembles a human being.
It was supposed to fill in the holes that I couldn't dig myself out of.
It hasn't killed me, so if its like everyone says, shouldn't I be stronger?
Shouldn't I be the one in control, instead of the blade?
Shouldn't I be happier?
Faulty glue, frayed thread, broken needle.
I'm still so broken...