There’s scar tissue.
On my head, my arms, everywhere and anywhere.
Behind every scar a memory, a story.
Happy memories, and not so happy memories,
but that’s just the way life is and I wouldn’t be who I am without my memories.
Some scars are big, some are small like paper cuts and some are open wounds,
but the most painful and significant scars are the ones no one sees.
Even the most important people around me don’t see the bleeding tissue.
They don’t see that I’m always being stabbed, that I’m always being ripped open.
Maybe they do.
Maybe they’ve learnt that they can do nothing.
I can’t even do anything. I don’t know what’s wrong.
I just know that inside I’m hurting.
Something is wrong, and I don’t know what because of how disconnected I’ve become with myself.
I haven’t done anything for myself in so long
I no longer feel the need to do things for myself.
I’m always providing for someone else.
Someone that isn’t mine to take care of,
Someone that isn’t mine to please,
there’s always someone and Someone always changes.
But as I’ve learned, as much as it hurts I know that the pain means I’m alive.
It’s a constant reminder that I’m alive and I deserve to be alive as everyone else around me.
So I gotta make the best of this life, as much as it sucks and try to make it bearable for those I care about.