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?
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
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?