What’s my damage? My damage is that I have been walked on so much that I am genuinely surprised when I look in the mirror and see that my flesh is not made out of carpet. My damage is that I am concerned that the people who touch me might get rug burn. My damage is that I was fourteen when he slapped me across the face and that I was the one to say I was sorry. My fucking damage is that I can still feel the sting whenever anybody raises their hands to me, even if it’s for a high five or a hug. My damage is that I have been called so many names in my life time that I have to look at my birth certificate to be sure I’m not Slut on the dotted line, that I’m not the embodiment of the Whore-shaped scar scraped into my ankle. My damage is that I don’t know how to have sex without crying now and my damage is that I’m terrified that the person I love to death will take it personally. My damage is that my skin feels like a prison and I have spent years trying to pry the bars apart. My damage is that whenever I am out in public, I immediately look for the easiest way to escape. My damage is that I don’t believe I am equally as important with my clothes on. My damage is that most of the time I feel like wet grass between someone’s toes as they stare at my back instead of watching out for it. My damage is that I pick at the ends of my hair because it feels like not even strands of me care enough to stay together. My damage is that I don’t know how to accept compliments without shaking my head, no matter what my mouth is saying. My damage is that each time I have been slapped, poked at, punched, hit, or slammed against fridge doors, I have always heard the words “if you hadn’t…” and I have been reminded by every single person that had touched me as such that my pain matters less than their pride. My damage is that, at seventeen, I still can’t sleep with my bedroom door open. My damage is that I have suicide notes folded in with my socks. My damage is that every time I go to bed, I still wrap myself around your sweater even though it doesn’t even fucking smell like you any more.
Don’t ask me to be vulnerable with you if you have no intentions of protecting me.
Unknown (via perfect)
Alcohol tasted better than you, anyway.
(6-word story #8)