your wrists are covered with despair and words that were shouted at you when you were only eleven. the tear stains that coat your cheeks are memories of nights spent curled up in the corner of your room with the door locked and lights turned off. your voice cracks with every syllable, because growing up you were trained to second guess your own thoughts, your own feelings. your heart is a war zone, with land mines at every twist and turn, and I don’t blame you, because the only love you know is the sound of glass shattering and doors slamming and yelling and yelling and yelling. the words that are scribbled on that crumbled piece of paper in your trash can are letters that will be read by nobody, because you were brave enough to put those pills away. you’ve been biting your lips so hard you’re wearing your own blood as lipstick, and everyone keeps telling you how pretty you are.
- monsters don’t just live under your bed (@craftkiddo)