I trace you gently with the tip of my finger.
Part of me feels a sense of ownership over my body, but another part of me feels a lack of control of myself, and which it is I will fail to ever know.
I cannot erase you, are you a constant reminder that I am okay, or you a memorial that I am healing?
  Are you trying to tell me that the person I once was is still in there somewhere?
Are you telling me those times will never be erased?
  Or are you showing me that they rest at ease now and are fading away?
I trace you with the knuckles of my gentle hand in search of an answer, but like all serious questions I ask, no answer arises.
You haunt me sometimes, like a ghost in the night, you are a shadow of a dark part of me that I have worked my whole life to hide.
Now you just flaunt yourselves around as if I asked you to announce to the world that I am losing a battle that no one can win.
You cannot be concealed, but sometimes I accept that because the people who notice you, are often the ones who are apart of my own army.
Together we can fight this war that slashes are thighs and wrist.
Together we can fight this monster that is depression.