It

It curls
A dark and slinky cat, winding about your ankles

It claws
A thorny pocket-sized monster, fitting perfectly into that hole in your chest

It cries
Louder than a banshee on her best day, louder than a lost child on its worse

It hurts
Sometimes a simple reminder, like a papercut; sometimes a deep wound, like a gunshot

It scars
You can sing and smile and talk and shop and laugh and wash and scrub, scrub, scrub-
and tell everyone it’s not there

But it is

Picture of me taken by an artsy-photography friend in high school. It’s sort of ironic considering the self-harm I struggle[d] with (though never on my wrists).

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A poem I composed a couple years ago that’s describing some of various struggles I’m dealing with right now….

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