I have scars. Everywhere.
I have stretch marks, a scar from when I went to the aquarium for my eighth birthday. A scar inside my nose from my surgery. Scars on my heart from seeing my loved ones - the ones who only truly cared about me pass on.  Mental scars from the torment and the hate I've endured from people who I have cared deeply about, and would have done anything for. My parents, some friends. Yet, if you take a look at my right arm, both legs and under my breast- you'll see self inflicted scars. Ones I have put there. Scars that are there because people have made me hate myself. They didn't physically cut me, but cut my heart with a sharp knife each time they called me a fat useless *****, told me I should've died, that my life was meaningless and no one would ever love me. When they called me over dramatic about how I felt. When they told me I was ugly, that I wasn't equipped to make it in the real world. At one point an attention seeking *****.
Cutting myself was in a way to show them on the outside of me- what they were doing to my person on the inside of me- my soul.  For me, it became an outlet , an escape, a way to begin to count all the times I've been hurt by people's harsh words .
Looking back at them, ashamed of how ugly they make me look- I then remember that the people who caused me the pain weren't beautiful. They were cruel , ugly , demeaning monsters. I was already more beautiful with they are because I've made it out alive. Their negative attitudes and self hate for themselves are slowly killing them. Making them miserable. I will never be like them. That's the only thing that keeps me moving. Knowing I will always be better than who they are and how they treated the people the supposedly care about.