Wrists

I was born with a scar on my left wrist. I often tug down my sleeve, staring at the light flesh smeared on my hand, a different skin tone than the rest of my body. It was never peculiar to my friends and family I showed it to, but it was peculiar to me. It was centered just underneath my sleeve, hidden from the naked eye. What does that sound like to me?

To answer the question, nobody put a knife in my body. I put it there myself. Nobody forced me to make that decision but myself. I made myself do it. I was not murdered in my past life; It was a suicide.

Someone hurt me so bad I felt the need to take a razor to my skin and peel off skin and bone until I was dry. Until I was numb. They pushed me to my breaking point but took no blame for what happened next.

So, yeah. I put the knife in my skin myself. I'm not proud of it.

Challenge

"And so it seems I must always write you letters that I can never send." - Sylvia Plath

Write a letter you have no intention of sending. It can be serious, funny, scathing, revealing, etc., just make it honest.

Cheddar

I couldn’t stop you

My mom used to tell me that as a lady, I had to be kind to everyone no matter what. The Bible says that as well. I can't escape it. Well, I don't want to be kind anymore. If you're allowed to walk all over me, I'm allowed to tell the truth. I couldn't stop you.

I've never enjoyed the feeling of physical contact, not even from my family. This girl used to hug me without my consent in the first grade, and I guess I still hold a grudge. It's been many years since then, yet I can't get over it. You used to touch me and hold my hand when I didn't want to. I felt pressured to. I couldn't stop you.

My love language is words of affirmation, yet the compliments I received from you seemed too good to be true. You called me beautiful, but only after I called you the same thing. You called me hot, but a young girl doesn't want to be considered hot by her boyfriend. She wants to be loved. I am not hot, nor am I beautiful. I am ugly, scarred by your touch and the secrets you kept from me. When I walk past you, I feel those scars burning my skin like a fresh tattoo. I couldn't stop you.

I remember the first time I hugged you. I'd never had contact with a boy before. You asked to hug me, then whispered "I love you" in my ear. Back then, I felt you truly loved me. Someone who loves a woman wouldn't do that. I did love that hug, actually, but not anymore. After that, you wanted more. I didn't. I couldn't stop you.

I used to love you, boy, but I couldn't stop you. How I wish I could stop you. Maybe my skin wouldn't be full of all these tattoos.

Challenge

Honor a loved one.

Write about a person that even in death enters your thoughts. Honor them, tell their story, or just anything about them really. Just talk about them. :)

Cheddar

Ryann

He was my favorite middle school teacher. The best kind of one. Funny, charming, etc. Never raised his voice, never had anyone get into trouble. The day of his death was September 27th, a matter of days after my birthday. His deranged roommate shot him in his own apartment building, but nobody saved him. He was long dead before help arrived.

The school loved him, we missed him. The day before he died, I created a board game with chalk in my driveway. Since then, the sensory walk in my school hallway haunts me. Never once did I purposely try it, in spite of how much his death hurt my heart.

I was young when he died. I’ve grown since then, but I certainly haven’t gotten over him. Tears almost always come to my eyes when I hear sad music, reminding me of him. He will forever be in the hearts of my entire school, all the teachers, all his friends, his family, and me.