Around this time of year
when the sun and shorts come out
I remember the past.
Others are looking forward
while I'm looking behind.
In afternoons
in sun soaked classrooms
I look down
at my ankles and wrists
and I awkwardly shuffle to cover the past.
I remember two years ago,
and the depression I never quite recovered from.
I tug on my sleeves to cover the marks
least anyone notice the fading white scars.
I remember the razor blades
and blood soaked sheets
as I pour out my feelings
and body on to the pages.
I remember the tears and anger,
and confusion
because
why would a sweet girl from a good family
and nice neighborhood
ever do this to herself?
I remember wanting to tell someone
but never feeling like I could ever trust anyone again.
I remember my hopelessness.
I run my fingers over the crosshatching,
for the vagueness of my memories,
the scars feel so real.
And the past comes alive to me
in these afternoons
when I remember
exactly two years ago.
And today
as a similar situation arises
and for the first time
is a long time
I longed for that ache.
But instead of stiffing through the archives
to find the rusty razor blades,
I close my eyes
and whisper to myself
"You are strong.
And you will wear these scars as a reminder of how strong you are,
and how you survived."

And the past remains the past.