the loop

no one stopped. no one stopped and looked at me with care in their eyes when they found out. they looked at me with apathy and said they didn’t worry because my wounds weren’t as deep as someone else’s. they said they weren’t deep enough to do anything. so i went home and sliced through my skin and spent hours in the bathroom because the only solace i felt was in there. they looked at me and asked, why? i didn’t say anything, i could barely force myself to breathe. so they slapped me, again, why? my lips trembled, my palms sweat. how do i tell them that there are so many things creeping into my mind, into my head, into my heart that i couldn’t cope anymore, that breathing hurts, existing hurts, that i just want to be dead. how do i voice how much i want to disappear. so i say, i don’t know, another slap. this time it makes my ears ring. i pray they hit me harder.

moments pass.

someone else asks me the same questions.

i answer the same thing. this time they say a reason so foul i can’t even utter it. i exclaim no. deny it. i’m called a liar. so i go quiet while accusations are thrown at me. again. and again. and again. they are spat in my face. and i stare blankly, at what? i don’t know. then it starts again. they grab me. slap me again. i don’t cower away, i don’t ask them to stop, i don’t yell. i don’t even make eye contact. i get hit again. at this point i wish they would beat me so hard that i lost consciousness. i remember thinking i googled ways to deal with this, but nothing is coming to mind. then it happens, they kick me in the stomach. the violence is such a shock i fall backwards. no one helps me. no one asks if i’m okay. they walk away. and i’m left with relief.

that night, i have no space on my arms. so i gnaw against my biceps with an old blunt pair of scissors like i’m sawing wood. it feels good to see the blood. maybe it will be deep enough. i do it until i pass out and hide the blood soaked tissues inside my pillows. one of them sees the next day whilst inspecting my skin. i beg them not to tell. i can’t remember if they did.

the emptiness i feel has engulfed me. i feel like a shell. no one speaks to me. i don’t sleep. i don’t know when morning begins and when night ends. i just remember crying and being made to feel bad for it. i can’t remember the last time i smiled and i don’t remember feeling anyone’s warmth. only the hits against my skin. i make a promise to myself every night that i will move away so far, so so far away. so that i can tear my skin to shreds.

i write and write and write until my hands hurt. i can’t speak to anyone else, i’m not allowed to. so i stare at empty walls until the sun starts to rise and hit myself in the head over and over again. find solace in the burning hot shower that engulfs me.

no one says anything to me anymore apart from telling me when the food is ready. even then i am scared to ask for anything extra. scared to eat in front of them. i eat what i’m given, after everyone else, quietly. i don’t want to give them another reason to hate me. they have so many already. i guess you can do a lot of damning things at only 13 years old.

they stop telling me to act. they say i’m pretending, i don’t say anything. i nod yes and no. they think i’m being a nightmare, that no one else is as bad as me. they’re right. i wish i could give them what they wanted. be someone who was pretty, skinny, smart, unscarred. i scratch at my scars.

i message a boy, tell him about the hurt. the pain. i am young and naive and i think he’ll save me. he must do, i’ve read it in all of the books. seen it i. all of the films. heard it in all of the songs. but he leaves me. because i hate myself too much to let him fuck me. to let him see my body. so he sleeps with the pretty, skinny, smart, unscarred girl and even posts pictures for me to see. pale skin, red lips, red dress, perfect smile. they look perfect. with his arm around her waist. i blink away the tears and re-read our old messages. i pray for my own death again. i felt betrayed, cried until i passed out, tore at my skin some more until i realised how unimportant i am to the people who are supposed to love me. so what else is there to expect?

i think, maybe something was inherently wrong with me when i was born. that’s why. its got be. something is so colossally wrong with me.

a couple of years later, i meet someone. the emotional abuse he had catered for me felt so personal it was almost romantic, a form of love, he had me wishing that he would physically hit me. beat me. tear me apart. like they all had when i was 13. if you won’t let me fuck you, i can get 10 other girls who will. don’t be stupid. you’re so replaceable. the words ring in my ear every time i feel unwanted. he would be so happy with how damaged he had made me, how he had placed wounds in those exact cuts he had kissed. i smile and i nod. i let him take what he wanted. the pain felt debilitating.

a couple of months later, i get a phone call. i am accused of things. again. and i deny them. again. i am told everything bad that happens is because of me. and that no one could ever love me because i was not enough. i wasn’t skinny, pretty, smart, unscarred. that they would use me and discard me. i was no different to trash. i stay quiet. and i wait for them to hang up. i don’t eat for 3 days.

their words come true like a prophecy and i tear at my own skin for sanity.