I touch the side of my thigh and feel the familiar ridges and raised skin, that I can not decide if I’m proud of them or asaimed. I could point to each and every one and say the reason and date, but I don’t. My thoughts are more twisted than that kid in fourth periods spine, you know who I’m talking about. People will look at me and the way I present myself and make snap judgments. Those judgments leave little voices whispering about how you are wrong. Ignore the good ones, they say. They are wrong, they say. My face blends in a crowd so easily, don’t think I’m complaining, I want to blend into the crowd.

Have you ever had a doctor say “I believe you are exaggerating” or, “are you sure it is that bad?”. You reply in a half gone voice taken by days without sleep, astounded by the wall you will to have to climb “I-i-i-i-i don’t k-k-know”. As the words leave my mouth your faith of help crashed. The doctor smiles as if you am fine. As if you will not go home and cry, maybe go to that small metal box you hid in your closet you pretend doesn’t exist. You rattle it and a familiar sound greets you, it begs you to come back, you want to let it back. You know it will sting, sting worse than you remember. All of a sudden you snap back, you are still in the small room that smells like bleach and incense. The doctor closes his file on you, filled with you in black and white. He still has the sickening smile on his face, and says “we will need a follow up six weeks. “You are still off in the distance “numb”

It takes but a moment to fall to the floor.
It takes but a moment to miss speak.
It takes but a moment to hurt someone.
It takes but a moment to lose someone.
It takes but a moment to lose yourself.
It takes but a dreadful moment to loose everything.