Maybe I was weak. Maybe people were right about the individuals who like to deliver themselves consciously pain. I was stupid and I was childish.
I took a blade, I took a piece of glass, and I took cigeratte ends, and tried to mark my skin. I was a tigeress and I had my scars. I was suicidal and I was a surviver.
I trembled before touching my skin with the objects, but once I did it, I felt no pain, because the pain in me was a magnitude of ten times more than that.
I have always hated the stupid excuses people make when they cut themselves, and whenever a person close to me would hurt themselves, I would press their wounds so it would hurt them even more.
They would scream and beg me to stop, and I would ask them “Is this pain more than the pain you had when you decided to harm yourself?”, and they would plead saying “No, it isn’t. Please let go it really hurts.”
I would ask them questions, asking if they’d ever do it again, and they would say no.
I managed to help a lot of people out of it, for as I was a tigeress myself. I had my marks. I had my ugly and still painful scars, that would be my daily reminder of my critical and pitiful past.
It took me a while to realise that I don’t need this. I don’t deserve to see this every single day. My future daughter doesn’t deserve to see that her mother gave up and was helpless.
As much as I regret the scars, I did touch the fire that leads me to hell and back with every cut.
I tremble, stumble, and fall, as I walk on the streets of the city I thought I’d create a new life.
It’s not that I wasn’t looked after, I just didn’t want to be saved.