We were never proud to be who we were. We scarred our bodies with knives, trying to pry off our flesh like molts we couldn’t shed. And when we discovered we were too young to shed this old skin, we hid ourselves in needle and ink, making new scars we pretended were art and never saying what they truly were: bright neon signs reading DON’T KILL YOURSELF.
You always promised me you’d leave, and I promised you the same, and when you finally got dragged away, I didn’t cried. I had cocooned myself from your kind words right at the beginning, and you always did the same for me.
I hope you don’t miss me.