so many scars.
so much pain and violence.
the scars on the outside show.
but so do the scars inside.
the scars on the inside have healed.
but the scars on the inside still bleed.

I hate them.
I hate all of you, with your seemingly perfect lives.
your college of choice.
your family that dosent hit you,
at twenty years old.
still abusive.
still adicts.
still insane.
still dramatic.

I hate it, you know.
the drama.
even though it dosent seem that way.
I play into it because it's the only way i know:
be more dramatic than they are;
draw the attention away from the one's your ashamed of.
dont let anyone see how bad it is,
how bad it hurts.

because it does hurt.
being twenty when you're away,
and fifteen, thirteen, when you're "home."

especially when you dont have a home. you have a bed in a room.
your things get rifled through every day
stolen
given to your other siblings
JOURNALS read because they werent hidden well enough.

I have scars.
but they're so much worse on the inside.
because they are not scars
they are open wounds
and they do not let me grow
and they do not let me learn
they just keep me stuck
and bleeding.
and hurting
and crying
and dying
inside.