Seeing the fucking scars

  July 30th, 2018 by morado123

My scars represent how much of a coward I have been. I punished myself for things that weren’t my fault. I was scared and depressed, I didn’t know where to go. My sexuality meant that I couldn’t tell anybody and what I went through was some shit that would surely lead to bad rumors about me.

Cutting my skin felt good, to be honest. It didn’t hurt at all. In fact, I really loved the red blood seeping through the cuts. Red symbolized that I was actually LIVING, not a lifeless zombie. I was even quite smart at minimizing the scars, because I insisted on cutting the same spot over and over again, though that ensured leaving scars, to be honest.

Sometimes I still ponder cutting myself. The adrenaline gave me that thrill (however small it may have been) that life couldn’t give. Self-hatred and self-harm has played a huge part and defining who I am. Yes, I’m a coward who can’t stop thinking about harming myself. Fuck. I’ve never wanted to descend into a fucking black hole of depression I may never get out of.

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