Trapped Behind Scars

I remember the first time I cut like it was yesterday,

Even though it was my freshman year of high school

I had tried earlier in my younger years to do it,

But I could never quite build up the courage

The first time I made my first cut I knew there was no turning back for once you see the blood and feel the sting,

It becomes an addiction—a constant thing

 

Three years later I’m trapped

Trapped behind relapses, bracelets, and long sleeves

Behind expectations to quit only to fall back into the hole I had just crawled out of

Trapped, behind the constant itch and the long lasting wish to get better

I wish someone would have warned me before I made the first cut that it would be the first of many

Many burning thighs, awkward conversations with guys,

and secrets no teenager should constantly have to keep

 

Three years later and I’m left with a scarred body and soul

Because what most people don’t realize

Is that self-harm is more than how deep the cuts are on your arms, but rather,

How deep they are in your heart

Because each time you pick up a blade and do the exact same line over and over again,

You’re tearing apart more than just your skin

But also the slowly suffocating beauty within

 

Three years later I’m left with only a few days clean,

And even though that may not seem like a victory to many,

It’s one to me

And if I can say anything to all individuals out there about to pick up that razor

It’s that what you’re about to do cuts more than just yourself,

But it cuts your potential to get better

So please, don’t be like me and have to focus on getting clean

Get help instead

This poem is about: 
Me

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