Pain doesn’t last forever,
but the scars from it do.
The innocence and the love that once consumed me whole is long gone. I may heal, but the wounds that once predominantly covered my body will leave big, dark scars. Damage to myself from my mindset, my insecurities and other people. Slowly the scars will fade to become thinner and pale, but they will never leave my body. I am damaged goods.
My mind never gives me a break, I am physically tired but my thoughts are busy; I never have any inner peace. Every time one thought gets bored of me another decides I am its new prey. Not only am I a slave to new thoughts, but I am chained to old memories. I remember things that weren’t even a big deal when they happened and feel like I am crushed by six hundred pounds of bricks. My breath tightens and my body aches. All I want in those moments is for everything to stop. I wish so dearly I could forget the memories my brain holds above me, teasing and taunting me like I am a bull and it holds a giant red scarf.
I fought lengthy battles and developed my wisdom. That wisdom, however, came with a price. My innocence. I lost my innocence in a way that I deem unfair; I was pushed into losing it quickly, and I will never forgive those who pushed me astray from my blind loving before its necessary time. They were no better than me and I was no less than them. They had no right to look down on me simply because I hadn’t worn my features with grace just yet.
The crushing emptiness can be overwhelming. Tears without feeling; I have no solid reason to cry. I lost myself in my insecurities and destroyed myself trying to change them. I am numb, hollow. A shell of myself, a body with no soul. Doing things I once loved became a chore, all I ever want to do is close my eyes and let the ground engulf me whole. I became a spectator of a life that was once mine; it’s as if I am a puppet being forced to choke on my own strings. You would think I would be grateful for the slow pace, but all there is nothing. I will dwell on something insignificant for hours. I often find myself thinking that I would rather be sad than empty, I feel like a psychopath but the sad days are over. I am buried under a pile of my own problems, shattered. I´m damaged goods. I teeter on the brink of disaster, one wrong step and everything will collapse.
Damaged goods have to heal, but the idea of talking to others about my troubles and wounds makes me feel physically ill. I know that I have to learn to trust the world again. To learn to love again; both others, and myself. I know that beauty is subjective, but it’s really hard to love yourself when what’s engrained in your brain as beautiful doesn’t resemble what stares at you in the mirror. Why am I not enough? I am sick and tired of living thinking that I am not beautiful. Being obsessed with your appearance and what you look like is one of the most soul-destroying things. The scars my insecurities gave me will never fully leave, I will always be damaged goods. I will never get back the time I wasted trying to fix things that didn’t need to be fixed. I watched as life drifted by and left me behind. I would give anything to feel the way I did when I would run around in the backyard as a kid, kicking balls and picking dandelions to attempt, unsuccessfully, to make a crown. But all it is now is an empty memory.
It’s a horrible feeling it is,
the feeling of feeling nothing,
It really truly is.