my left forearm is a mixture of ugly blue and black and red scratch marks of varying depths, in the shape of my nails. i am afraid and i wonder why i did what i did. each time i dug my nails into flesh and each time i slammed my arm against the window pane provided a hit of relief rather than a blow of pain. but that was until it is days later now and catching slight glimpses of the scars seem to not just make me acutely aware of the pain burning in my arm, but also of the hot iron pressed mercilessly against my chest, reminding me of what i was trying to escape from in hurting myself.
i want to be okay. i want to be so okay.
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