The scars will not go away.
They will itch.
Your scars will feel like someone is grinding glass in them.
The numb parts will stay numb.
They hurt to touch.
Shaving will never be the same.
Your fingers won't work properly.
The ones you didn’t take care of get worse. Skin sags.
The scars will not go away.
Deep cuts leak.
First-aid supplies are really expensive.
The scars will not go away.
Kids will ask what happened.
People will stare.
Employers will ask if you’re mentally stable enough to hold a job.
They will get sunburnt, and stand out more.
They define every outfit you choose to wear for the rest of your life.
They are the reason *** with the lights off is the only *** you’ll ever have.
The scars will not go away.
You never get used to seeing them,
But you never forget they are there.
People touch you and you flinch. Don’t touch me there, there, there or there.
You will feel disgusting, disgusting, disgusting for the rest of your life.
The scars do not go away.
They do not go away.
They will not go away.

A chokehold
on my own throat,
A dust
in my own eyes,
A Sinkhole
on my boat,
A fool
of my own lies

The only one
allowed to do
this to myself?

I AM

Girls like me are taught to treat our bodies like metaphors, we are taught that we can only be desired if we are oceans and hillsides, if we are Septembers and sinkholes. They paint us, all sunset eyes and nicotine, hoping to color us in with their washed out words, so that maybe we can mean something. We are taught to fold into ourselves, to shrink our waists and our voices, that being small minded will compensate for the space that we take up. We are taught to apologize for the space that we take up. Girls like me have to be thankful to the stranger who comes and dares to want us, as if we’re only worth our weight in love poems, as if he’s doing me a favor with his wandering hands. Girls like me fill our heads with shipwreck and sorry’s, hoping that this time it’ll be different. That this time, for once, love might be blind. That this time, for once, we can be enough. Girls like me are afraid of being enough. Because maybe if I think of my body as anything more than a graveyard, your ghost hands will find somewhere new to rest.

Sorry to victimize you with my lonely cries
Fabricate my brain under the sheets of lies  
How selfish am I
Selfish is taught,
by was selfish See's
Depression & suicide
Took me down to my knees
A man once told me-
Depression is a choice
My aching heart that feels suffocation
Before I'm able to speak my own voice
My aching heart that can't simply
Define what it means-
The guilt that destroys you
Or what it means to destroy the guilt.

I hold my walls strong,
Just like the others,
I am no more weaker than-
I am no more selfish than
Depression & suicide
Doesn't let me know that you are better than
Your not.

I once met a boy who put his hand on my thigh as he asked for my name. and upon learning it, pressed his lips to mine. naive and foolish, I believed this to be what the people called "love." and I went willingly.

I once met a boy who told me he loved me the day he met me. he swore it was true. realizing that this must be what the people called "love"
I went willingly

I once met a boy who sang songs out of tune and danced with me in the rain. he played music with dandelion fingers. I was awe-struck. disregarding future pain, I closed my eyes and the door.
and I went willingly.

I once met a boy with broken hands who smelled of cigarettes and regret. he plucked his guitar strings and I imagined them to be straps and ties of my clothing. with each note he played, more of my skin touched the cold air. by the end of his song, I'd written this poem.

(e.s.s.)