A question I saw….What if we looked like what we’d been through?

My face would have huge puffy circles around the small bloodshot eyes, with remnants of mascara and day-old eyeliner tracing down my cheeks. My skin would be mostly scratch marks; red and purple and angry and the skin would be torn in places and uneven, with tiny spots of blood in the tracks. There would be bruises on my head and arms and legs from the beatings I thought I deserved when I didn’t say the right thing, when he didn’t look at me enough, when you didn’t sit next to me at lunch. There would be cuts here and there, with little bits of cotton wool stuck in them from the makeshift dressings I couldn’t entirely remove because it hurt too much where the fibres were dried into the leftover blood. I’d be disgustingly thin, with bones sticking out of my shoulders and chest, and I’d be hideous. I’d be all patched up with novelty plasters of hello kitty and spiderman and dinosaurs and penguins, and tissues stuck with sellotape on the bits that a plaster wouldn’t cover. My eyes would look like I’d been awake for years but still had a long way to go until sleep.

My dry, cracked lips would form a smile that kinda hurt from the skin being so taught, but that wouldn’t stop me. Because even on the darkest days I knew it could change. I’d get uglier every day, more bruises and scratches and bones, hidden under layers of black clothing. But that smile would never leave for long.


I wanted to write for you again.
I wanted to once more plea with a vast audience of inconsequential souls,
in the vain hope that you might be reading.
I wanted to again endeavour to explain
how I tore apart my world
laying waste to all that mattered
and came around too late.
I wanted to offer you lies.
I’m better.
I’m stable.
I’m different.

This was a bad idea.
But it stopped me crawling to your doorstep.