I don’t remember what my thighs used to look like
They are strangers to me
As sure as they are
Unwanted guest in chair.
Spread out like open arms waving
“Come see what I’ve done to my self"
All I need is a red tent over me.
These thighs are an unsettling celebrities
I am a bodyguard
Trying to protect them as best as possible in jean and sweaters.
Because I’d rather be a bodyguard then a storyteller.
Then the receiver of sympathetic looks, someone to relate to
Something to hide behind. I’m tired of hiding but mind riots at the thought of... these... things being seen
Shorts are my enemies, turning my body into a fish bowl filled with fish no one wants to buy
I’m forced to be held and comforted for scars. Always a risk. Always the girl that did this.
Forced to explain and apologize for other ppls pain. Forced to answer way because I have slashed myself in book and everyone wants to hear a story
Once the girl I love told me my scars were beautiful. We were two sick people infatuated with each other’s pain. I wanted to wipe away hers but she wanted bathe in mine.
at her and
said thank you
my scars reveled in attention, but I mourned
Forced to tell stories I’d rather forget be I painted my skin with murals of vertical scar tissue
Paint strokes with exacto blades, red being the only paint I could afford
I turned my self into an art piece—everyone loves to gawk but I can’t sell
And now I am my worst art form on repeating with nothing but fucking stories that I’m tired of telling