Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Sometimes unseen from your eyes, the hand goes to those old scabs and scrape them till they bleed. Blood stains the pale skin around it and blood drip in slow motions to the floor.
The red brings relieve but with it the knowledge of an open wound embrace your mind. Franticly try to sweep everything under the rug, hide the truth from the world, wipe the blood from the floor. These are things you know so well. The memories of that time haunts your thoughts.
As the blood dries up and a new scab forms you find renewed strength to continue the daily journey, pushing everything that shaped you to the back of your mind.
Will I still be me if I was never, you know, if I was never taken?
Not taken from my parents in the dark of night, but taken from myself for everyone to see. The moments that shape you, is the moments that will forever hate you.