I’m not very good at talking, but I’ve always been good at talking in my head.
I’ve got exactly 6 and a half notebooks filled with the conversations I’ve had in my head for the past three years.
And this past month I’ve filled up 31 pages of my current journal.
Blurbs of ‘I really ****** up’ and 'today was really great’.
But now it all just meshes together and I keep ripping out page after page in hopes of forgetting.
My stomach burns where you touched me.
My eyes drop tears, right on cue for these April showers.
My hands are clenched into fists ready to strike whoever tries to lay a finger on me.
My mother can’t even kiss me goodnight without me crying because she’s triggering war flashbacks when her lips brush my head.
And my thighs are covered in slashes where I tried to cut off the skin you kissed.
And I keep trying to tell myself I’m better than this.
But the truth is, I’m not.
I got myself into this mess.
I brought this all upon myself.
All because I can’t talk.