You know, even though I know no one really cares, no one notices anymore, in a way, I kinda like my cutting habit. I’ve been doing it for over a decade now, though before I was just trying to kill myself, now it’s how I cope with things sometimes. I haven’t done it in about a week. I have the words “perfect” and “beautiful” in my arms, though I know I never will be either of those things. There’s one scar, near my left wrist, that I’m actually proud of…it stands out among the rest while the others blend in and fade. I’m proud of it, of my scars.
I feel like they prove that I’m alive.
