They said I would find

a boy to kiss away my tears,

that there would be someone

to hold back my hair

as I purge the

too small meal.

They said that the scars

would make me a survivor,

and apparently I had

something to prove.


And now I’m lying

on my childhood bed –

applying pressure on the

ugly cuts staining my skin.  

Reaching for

the energy to care,

to care enough to get up

and pretend I’m beautiful,

and feel the scars on my hip

remind me of the truth.


Take me back to

when I thought strength

was looking for happiness,

and I didn’t feel

the crushing, ever-crushing, need

to cut open my heart

so someone, anyone,

will want me.

Take me back to before,

when I though pain was just pain.


I want to feel beautiful

as I watch the blood

beading up and running down my

pale skin,

before mixing with the

shower suds and rushing,

rushing towards the drain –

but it shouldn’t be romanticized.

Because in the end,

it’s just red.


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741