Posted by: ImpendingDawn | February 2, 2014

To the Girl With the Scars

Your arms are torn by knife carvings and burn marks are etched into your skin. Most of the scars are old and faded by now, but they mark you all the way up to your sleeves.

There are others, though, new ones. How new are they, the blistering red gashes, the bloody rips? Did you sit in your room with a razor or scissors or tweezers, or did you use your manicured and sparkly nails? Was it today? Did you lose control? Do you need help?

Because I do. Sitting here on the bus with you, I need some help.

I can’t cry in this place full of strangers, and I can’t let you know that I see and I care and I want to do something. I’m still recovering and you are a trigger. I’m still recovering so I can’t be near you.

Do you still have emotions? Can you feel them properly or do you lose yourself in everything; do you care too much? Do you still care about yourself, about your own life? Can you see how twisted it is to hurt yourself, or have you gotten to the point where cutting makes perfect sense?

Does suicide whisper to you?

Do you whisper back?

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