scars and prescription bottles 

I sit in skin that doesn’t feel my own, it’s a detailed map of each hand they’ve laid upon me.

See?
This is the scar from that 8th grade boy.

See?
This is the mark from when I thought I was unstoppable, glass was my kryptonite.

See? This is the scar from that one time.

You know the time I tried to run in front of a car because I thought that if it hit me I wouldn’t have to go back to see her.

The scar isn’t actually from the car or from tripping over the curb, it’s from that glass she threw at me when she found out I tried to kill myself.

All I remember are the bruises she created and the feeling of his grips on my wrists, nothing more than a cage I can’t escape from.

Why didn’t they tell me that you can’t escape your problems if they’re within, but they did.

They did.
I just didn’t want to listen.

I don’t want to listen, but I can no longer ignore the scream of my own voice.

I no longer recognize the face in the mirror. Almost as if I don’t want to know me, why would I?

That would mean remembering the touch of strangers on my skin, and that feeling has become far too familiar. 

I wish I was as good at refilling my happiness as I am at refilling prescriptions bottles.

My body feels more like a pharmacy, not a home but more like hell. I don’t feel like me anyway, so it’s all worth a shot – 

at least I know it’ll numb me.
and that’s better than not being me. 

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