Is it wrong that I have such a fascination with your edges? That I wouldn’t mind if they were to leave red tally marks all over my body, one for each time I fell for you?

Is it wrong that I miss the sting?

Is it wrong that I miss the release? Is it wrong that my body longed for the pain, is it wrong that my spirit was already self-flagellating? I made what was inside outside; I wore the scars proudly to honor the pain inside me, I was done looking like I wasn’t in pain. I was done with the bleeding, the bleeding, the bleeding, the bleeding that was visible only to my own eyes. 

It was like I just… at last… wanted to dive into my own suffering. I don’t want to hold it together, how long I’ve held it together. How long I’ve held it together, I don’t want to be held together. I want to be held, not to hold myself together, I want loving arms surrounding me, not barbed wires of repression and repression and repression and self-deception.

No, I ripped the barbed wire off and it left gashes bleeding all over my forearms, my thighs. That burn meant freedom.

I hope you can understand as fucked up as it sounds.