Sometimes I feel as if I am screaming at the top of my lungs and yet no sound emerges…I fear that if I stop screaming I will disappear completely. Soon I stop to wonder if maybe I am screaming loud and clear but no one is listening enough to hear me. I think about the words I am writing and wonder if they sound like the stereotypical “I sit and stare at these four walls” and so I try to feign lightheartedness but it doesn’t sound real . It amazes me what one can say in this little box that no one will ever give a second thought to… A lie, a question, maybe a confession. “She hates that she loves the feeling of the cold metal on her skin and the feeling of relief overwhelms the shame of the blood she hides.”
It doesn’t matter until she can’t hide the marks, can’t hide the scars, can’t stop the bleeding… No one can see it. No one needs to know the truth, that feeling inside of her that she can’t seem to control – can’t seem to cut out. No one needs to know anything but what they see, the smile, her laughter… a strength that radiates from overly large hazel green tint eyes. Surreal.
It doesn’t matter until she can’t hide the marks, can’t hide the scars, can’t stop the bleeding… No one can see it. No one needs to know the truth, that feeling inside of her that she can’t seem to control – can’t seem to cut out. No one needs to know anything but what they see, the smile, her laughter… a strength that radiates from overly large hazel green tint eyes. Surreal.
*This is a post transfered from an old blog that I kind of liked*
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