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Battle scars

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I look at the red marks that lace up and down my arms. They hurt. But in a good way, like the burn you get while stretching. I put my scissors back into desk drawer. A few drops of red blood ooze to the top of the three new marks. Soon they will fade and match the other pale pink lines that cover both of my arms from shoulder to wrist. I hear my mom calling my name. I know I should go downstairs. I walk to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face to get rid of the redness. But nothing will get rid of the marks. My battle wounds. Marks from the wars I fought inside myself, and I lost. Or maybe I won? I feel numb now, and no one can hurt me. I walk down the stairs. I dont bother to put on a jacket, I don't need to. My tanktop will be enough protection. No one will notice my scars. No one ever does. Because they make me safe. My cuts are my shield. No one can hurt me now.



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