Scars

As she stares at her hands, the prominent features in her hands stand out most, the scars. The scars that she made. The scars that she carved out, in anger, the scars that was created at the lowest point of her life. The scars. Upon gazing at both her hands and looking at herself in the mirror, she breaks down. She wonders why is that, there is so much pain in her heart, so much sadness in her eyes, so much hurt that she had inflicted upon herself. She hated to hurt herself, yet somehow making herself bleed seemed to take away the pain in her heart. It somehow makes her feel a tad better. It is as though, the blood that flows out from the wounds she inflicted washes away all the pain. As though the blood gives her a sense of relief. So, she hurts herself. Mostly by cutting her hands.

It's her only way to emotional freedom. Yet, people give her dirty looks when they look at her scars. Looks that carry heavy meaning. Her family deemed her a psychotic person yet they never even bothered to take one moment to understand her, talk to her, or just treat her kindly. No, she has always been an outcast to her family. Her own parents never wanted her, left and ran as far away as they could while her grandmother just took her in for the welfare money. How does she know that? Ha, her grandmother reminds her every time. Reminds her that she doesn't belong here. That her grandmother just needs the extra cash. That if her grandmother could, she would kick her out. That she was just a worthless piece of trash, like her mother. That no matter how hard she tries to please people, it always came back haunting her. So, she cuts to relieve the pain, to feel good, to carry on the charade of happy smiles. But she doesn't know when she will crack, when all this proves to be too much for her, when one of these days, the cut she makes will soon end her life.