Note from the author
*this story is based on true events. Please if you find this impossible to believe, believe it. I'm not looking for attention either. I only write how and what I feel so yea happy reading and there are some bulgar scenes but onward with it....
Readers descretion is advised
My deepest scars are hidden from reality. I try not to show my pain. No one seems to understand me. The only place I can truly open up is in something inanimate. My poems. They seem to take hold of me and drag me off into a world of words. Where I can find the exact words of my feelings. Books on the shelves. The smell somewhat comforting. I like the smell of old book. Takes me to a place where I was once happy. I hate emotional pain. Shows a sign of weakness. The physical pain from cutting helps me find a way to get through the day. For all the Christian preachers out there who say "God saved me, let him do the same to you". Well I don't want to hear it. God is just a name to me. Nothing more. Cutting some part of my body was something that was relieving. Seeing the blood come to the surface and run down my arm. Something about watching the blood come out was like watching the pain come and go. The rage that was formed was running out of me. the only thing I was left with was a scar...barely visable. But the scars that will always be there are the emotional ones. When I had to play mother to myself. When my real mother decided to say fuck what my kids want, I'd rather smoke weed and drink beer and get abused day after day by my boyfriend. No money for food. I was left to starve at school. Just barely making it through the day. Been so close to being under ground. For some reason something is always holding me back. For 16 years I've been holding out for the day when I move away from all of this. The neglect of a mother. The physical abuse of a father. The emothional and verbal abuse of a sick and twisted grandmother. I had no where to go. The only place where I could find refuge was with my brother. He moved to my grandparents place. Right before they moved in march of '08 I tried to go there every chance I got. The thing about going there was I knew no matter what, I would always be forgiven and loved. I was treated like the child I was supposed to be. My childhood was fucked up thanks to my family. One more year in high school and I get to leave this place that I'd call "home". Even If I never come back here I'll always remeber the hard time I was put through. From these inpenetrateable emotional scars. But then I'll hold my head up high knowing I've made something of myself. And that I'm not living in some trailer park like others turn out to. I'll never have to recall the days where my only friend was a razorblade or when I punched the walls to find relief. I should hope no one has to go through this like I have. It's not right.
Note from the author