It has been a year,
A year since the blade kissed my skin,
Since I danced with the sharp edge of pain,
And mistook it for release.

I don’t even remember the last time
The moment I stopped
But I also don’t remember the first.
Was it worth it?

The scars tell a story I don’t want to read,
Yet I wonder,
Are they loud enough?
Do they shout my struggles to a world
That rarely listens?

I was struggling.
I was really, really struggling.

I hate my scars,
The way they carve a map of hurt
Across the canvas of my body.
But they’re also not enough,
Not enough to explain the ache
That made them bloom in the first place.

Still, here I stand
A year further,
A year beyond,
Wrestling with what was
And what remains.