When I was 9 years old, I witnessed a girl with rivers of crimson, Seeping from her arms. She had a blood stained sheet, Tightened around her neck, As I heard her bloodcurdling screams, She locked eyes with me.
I felt her eyes. Dark and cold, and no emotion behind them.
And when I stared in the mirror at 4:38 in the morning. I felt the same thing.
It has never left me as it has infused into my cells, And has branded every thought, Every sense.
I am unsure to be afraid or comforted.
Someone previously described me as damaged, not broken, but I have pieces scattered everywhere, I have carved reasons why I am useless, I have swallowed for solutions.
I've never felt so alone. At least I know I am damaged and not broken, right?