i-m-d-e-p-r-e-s-s-e-d

I look down at my hands. I see smears of blood
From the years of pain I caused and pain from others
My doing
They didn’t help me
Not one bit
Only themselves

I look down at my body, scars from the words pelted at me.

I’m scared to see my arms
Covered by long sleeves
In the sweltering heat of summer
Never seen
A mess of bracelets
And neat dark red marks
Some lighter than others
Some barely there
Some as noticeable as a train speeding towards you

Why didn’t you notice sooner?
Why?
You could’ve stopped this
The marks
The tears
The razors
The knife nearly into my chest

You had the power to stop it
With words
But you just made it worse
With silence

A (not quite) poem for my sorrows (via samni-says-hi)