I was 11 when change happened.
Chubby yet barely developed.
Something laid dormant in my skin.
Waiting.

The waiting ended and the wickedness rose.
The dimples on my cheeks,
Stopped caving.
The light in my eyes went dark.

The monsters under my bed started to appear in my head.
I was starving.
Starving for an outlet and sustenance to keep me alive.

Purging on control and the need for something more.
I first tried scissors,
Trying to see how thick the skin on my suddenly thin wrists
Were.

I needed more.
I took apart my sisters razor to dig deeper.

What I found was a burned esophagus.
Bad breathe.
Thin hair.
Long sleeves in the middle of summer.
And clothes four sizes too big.

5 years.
6 suicide notes.
10,952 secret scars.
There was just no other way of feeling.