Romanticized
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.