Striped

I feel so, so unbelievably... ugly.

This isn't even a joke, or a cry for help. At least, I'm trying to convince myself it's not. They never really teach you this.. self-love thing in rehab. All they do is make sure I can walk again— which is fine, I guess. I need my legs after all. It's pretty much all I have going for me.

But god. I wish I didn't look fucking horrifying. Have I looked in the mirror? God, no. I don't even need to look at my reflection to know how fucked up my body's gonna look— looks. I'm pretty much all good for Halloween. A mummy. Not those cute kinds that kids dress up as— I'm pretty much a real life mummy at this point. I am never taking off these bandages. I'd rather die... again.

I already know what a scar looks like on my body— I have it on my face. I'm just.. really not in the mood to see it everywhere else. At least on my face, I can't see it without looking into a mirror, which is already rare enough. I don't need to look into a mirror to fix my hair, or do make-up— I do none of those. But now? I try and eat, and I just see... rolls and rolls of bandages wrapped around my arm, and I can't— I can't stand it. I don't wanna see jagged lines, crisscrosses bumping all over my skin. I don't wanna feel the tight, oddly smooth texture of a scar every time I try to scratch an itch on my shoulder. I can't.. I don't wanna be in this body anymore.

And this is in no offense to people who.. have scars. Hell, practically everyone in that city has scars now— even my sister. I'm not trying to insult anybody at all, I.. I just can't stand seeing myself like this. It's like.. a reminder— a fucked up reminder of how I betrayed someone— murdered someone.

. . .

It's what I deserve, I guess. It's hard to admit, but these scars.. hah. They'll always be here to remind me. And if that's not torment enough.. then maybe I'll just dance on that platform again.