Most people believe that if you're a writer, you're probably carrying a pen and notepad to jot down everything and anything that happens or slithers into your head
But I have never done these things.
I never wanted to be the writer whose words were laced with pain and anguish, whose words tasted bitter and hateful.
I wanted to write about beauty I had never experienced, I wanted people to believe that I knew Happiness and had known her a while,
but I am not that writer.
So my skin suffers the fate of a writer who cannot speak or type the plethora of emotions of what I cannot call a "life".
My skin holds years of grief and torment, lashed across my wrists like religious scrolls relaying of past tortures.
My skin carries my battles in the form of sharp injuries, telling everyone that although I am smiling, I do not know peace.
I wish I could apologize to my body for forcing it to carry this narrative of despondency within me.