As I'm standing at the mirror, I run my hand along the smooth band-aid on my jaw.
I've always had an issue with picking at my skin. I've never been able to stop, and I can't even remember when I started.
It's all so blurry, yet all so vivid. I remember one day I rode my bike down the path and felt the wind in my short hair, only stopping to look behind me when I saw a thin trail of dark red on the concrete leading up to where my bike had then stopped.
I now feel something light brush against my leg, maybe a stray hair or a little strand of thread I hadn't managed to throw away.
It's always been kinda bad. I don't even think I really want to, I just do.
I look down, and walk back over to my dresser as I see that crimson colour coating my ankle once again. I wipe it all off, and patch it up as the smell of metal hits me like a friendly pat on the shoulder.
But when something's been really bad for a really long time, it's not bad anymore. It's just normal.
YOU ARE READING
Poems probably
Poetrythe later parts are a lot better than the first ones in my opinion poems and random stuff i want to put on here
