12–18–17
My body is covered in tiny pink lines,
mapping out my life for all to see, destinations no one should go.
My body is covered in tiny pink lines,
playing out all my bad days like a play, the script blurry but the stage actions clear.
My body is covered in tiny pink lines,
reminding all onlookers of what they hope their child never is.
But I wouldn’t change it for anything,
no matter what you could offer me that could make the worst of me fade away.
But I wouldn’t change it for anything,
no matter how many questions you ask me, your words muffled by the curiosity that fills your mouth.
But I wouldn’t change it for anything,
no matter how long you stare, trying to understand how this could ever happen.
My life is on display,
with only the grim parts showcased.
My life is on display,
people’s fingers brushing over the work like it’s a hands on exhibit.
My life is on display,
comments and opinions about my methods for creating said openly and harshly.
This discoloration on my skin,
is used to define me.
This discoloration on my skin,
is used to evaluate who I will be, who I am, and who I was.
This discoloration on my skin,
is treated like a summary of my character and personality.
I am damaged on the inside and out,
and everyone can see it.
I am damaged on the inside and out,
and I wouldn’t alter my past.
I am damaged on the inside and out,
and will forever think I don’t need to change.
