The scars across my skin remind me of the pain as my mom stands in the background saying “we will talk in a bit I am playing spades”.
They remind me of the pain... The pain so unbearable... A pain so futile, so deep that even the deepest widest cut couldn’t compare.
Knowing that these cuts would hurt the others around me, how it would force them to feel the pain that I feel, I cut on.
The memories of pushing the blade into my skin, leaving my blood to run down my arm like a teardrop that I could never cry.
How I wish that someone would have just listened to my cries, to just take ten minutes to act like they care, but no one would, because no one was there.
I was forced to hold the emotions inside, forced to hide how I felt because no one cared anyway.
The scars remind me of the cold loveless nights that I went through, remind me of how my soul screamed for help, screamed for someone to ease the pain.
The open wound would drain the tainted blood but only for a while, and the physical pain would subside the emotional pain that boiled from within.
But nothing could take it away, nothing would eradicate it.