I am not scared of tearing at my skin and watching blood pour through the singe. I am scared of having red painted to my nailbeds, like Satan’s grime. I am scared of being caught with bloody hands, of murder, of pain, of brutality, of vulnerability. Cause if I kill myself softly, quietly, it’s not a crime.
I have scars scrawled across my skin, roads mapped out on my knuckles, breathing doesn’t come easy to me. I have bruises tainting my corse, tender blue staining my ribs and flaring red tainting my thighs, being doesn’t come easy to me.
But as long as I hush my whispers, as long as I scream my agony, I am alive.
Fir as long as I live, I am carcass.