The Scars You'Ve Caused
Memories of old times haunt me. The dark, the fear, the hurt.
Even with friends to guide me, my qualities will revert.
Past taking hold of me once more,
aching of wounds inflicted, a never-closing sore.
Intoxicated rage, you’d wound me in your stride.
Early morning, with concealer, your beatings I would hide.
I crave the past despite its horrors, the always-coming pain. For then I’d cover bruises, now gashes, cuts, self-maim.
The gaping hole you’ve left me with, will never quite be closed.
All the time wearing jackets and hoodies, long pants, I can’t leave my scars exposed.
Placing the blade against my arm, drag, cut, watch the blood, repeat.
Until the physical pain blocks the mental, my work won’t be complete.
With one last slice, the final one, vision blurring, I fall to the floor.
Bleeding out, in my last moments I’m at peace. I’m gone before you open the door.
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