Everyone wants to have scars to tell of their battles.
Like the scars on my tonsils will show how many times I had tonsillitis over the years, how the ulcers formed and left scars on the side of my throat. Like the little nail marks that are on my left hand, when you said no more. Like those scratches that Blossom gives me when she gets to excited and jumps all over me. That was just one visit to the vet.
All the other hours? The ones that never, ever, forms fully but continues to exist in your mind and your heart when you're crying on the floor of your room alone. Nobody sees the scars in my brain from the way its working wrongly, but maybe, maybe, if you look close enough, you'll actually see them in the tremors of my hands now.
All of these scars? Do they tell you of my battles? Well, they might tell you how I lost. How I lose, and lose, and lose, and the battles keep coming, and I keep losing, but I cannot fcking die. And I never win. And it just keeps coming. What are they even trampling on now? An empty shell of what used to be a person I was. Now, I am empty.
These little big glitches in my mind, these hand tremors, these pathetic words.
I didn't need those people to tell me what's wrong with me, but I guess I did. I may just be this person for the rest of the year now. The meds define me. The scars?
No one sees.
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