Lines (Trigger Warning: SH)

At first

I used that one line

As a reminder

To never forgive them.

Every time they hurt me

I redrew it

And reopened it.

I wanted a permanent scar,

A tattoo of my home

So I would never speak to them

Too cordially,

Or trust them

With my future children,

Or sit by them

At family gatherings.

And then I drew more.

One for every time

They took away my hope

And my freedom

And my confidence.

I kept a tally of the days

They wouldn't let me breathe;

The days I couldn't let myself breathe.

I justified it in my head

With a projector

That displayed little white lies

Behind my eyes at all times

Constantly playing on repeat

At school,

At home,

At work,

In the shower.

I'm not hurting myself.

This is a physical representation

Of what they are already doing to me.

A little reminder I like to write

In red pen on my arm,

To remind me

That I'm not

A problem child

Who throws temper tantrums,

Who can't be trusted with

Shower water

Or a door

Or food

Or a school-provided computer

Or decision-making

Without supervision

And reprimanding

And punishment;

Who can't receive encouragement

Or praise

Or grace

Or happiness

Without taking advantage of it.

And I liked writing that reminder

A lot.

Maybe a little too much.

Because I began to write and rewrite it

All over my body.

It gave me peace

Knowing I could just look down at myself

And see those words

And automatically know

What my life consisted of at the moment.

And what it always would consist of.

I loved the familiar burst

Of dopamine

Running through my brain

Through my cheeks

Across my shoulders

And into my chest

Where it radiated

Throughout the rest of my body;

Specifically the sweet spots

On hidden areas of my left limbs

Where I sometimes wrote and rewrote,

traced and retraced it

In layers.

It was calming,

A cure-all

For cancers,

Fevers,

Depression,

Anxiety,

Sleep issues...

It was like CBD

But less advertised.

I couldn't stop

To save my life.

But I did.

Eventually.

I can't wash the ink off,

Though.

I've tried.

I always just end up

Rubbing my arms and legs

Raw with a washcloth,

And I sigh

At the things

I would rather have left

Undone

And probably forgotten

By my ever-distracted,

Scattered mind.