reading love stories and how they become
so infatuated with each other they forget
parts of their conversation reminds
me of self harming. in a sense.
yet I know it makes zero.
I had no idea that I was hurting
or holding in trauma of my childhood
because I tried to avoid those memories
hence my forgetfulness or bad memory.
I loved hurting. but I knew it wasn't
what I should be doing to assure myself
that I loved the skin I am in.
I made up excuses and stories as to
my scarred skin because I was hiding the
fact I loved it. When my cellphone at midnight
shines against my wrist, I think
of all the missing marks on my skin.
I think of the way the blade hits
and how pretty it would look
but I know it's wrong.
but I loved it just like the main characters
in my favorite stories loved him/her.
yet my way of loving myself
was an uneasy thought to give up
the characters in my books loved
their opposite, their juxtapositions
but had to give them up someway
in order to regain that self control
they once had and I did that also.
Two years ago, on November 11th.
I'm giving myself a treat because no one
knows this but me. cause no one ever
told me. cause I am the freak. Cause I am
that girl who has something crazy in her life
occurring every day. but that's my story.
it's how I fell in love with me.
And I have everything.