𝗚𝗢𝗧𝟳 𝗜𝗠𝗔𝗚𝗜𝗡𝗘𝗦 𝟮

scars ; jinyoung

A/N: This story may contain certain things that may trigger certain feelings within you. Please, please read it with care. 

This the story for anyone or everyone actually who is struggling. This is the story for the girls or boys that may feel like they aren't enough because of what they have done to themselves. Well I have three words for all of you out there: 

You are enough 

You deserved to be loved, you deserve to live and you deserve to find someone that loves you, but most of all you deserve to love yourself. 

Sincerely,

Ash 

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Nobody loves scarred girls. Nobody loves scarred girls. Nobody. Loves. Scarred Girls.

You pressed your forehead to the glass, feeling the warmth of your breath fog up the glass, trembling, holding yourself together, trying not to fall apart.

Shaking

Quacking

Shivering

Falling

Apart

You grip the shard of glass so hard it hurts, it hurts, it hurts but it's a good kind of hurt, and you press the tip to your skin. Hard.

Pull. Drag. Swift. Clean.

Red pours out of you, and you like to think that the darkness comes out with it. It did sort of look like it, your blood was dark, dark, dark, like squid ink in the dim light.

Rivulets of dark scarlet ripple up your arms, dripping, pouring onto the tile floor, a round sphere of red hangs in the air before falling. And then another. And another. Another until, it seemed like it was raining, blood non-stop.

You lied down in it and started to cry, glass shard still gripped in hand. The feeling of floating grabbed you, pulled you until you were like in the backseat of your mind, watching you bleed impassively, surrounded by a pool of calm.

Maybe this isn't such a bad way to go

You muse before you close, slash one more cut, letting go.

3 Months Later

Your lips are pressed in a thin line, as they pull out the stitches, trying your best not to squirm as they're taken out, averting your eyes whenever they change your dressings, knowing that if you looked at them, looked at the jagged lines that you had carved, had etched onto your body that the pain would come again and then you would want to cut again, and the vicious cycle would continue.

You had already promised. You were going clean. You were going home. The word itself hung there, like a miracle, so fragile that if you even touched it, it would disappear into a million wisps of smoke.

'You're good to go,' the nurse said, not even bothered with the lines on your body. These were some of the best nurses. There were others, their lips would curl or they would look at you with pity in their eyes as they undid the stitches, and how you hated those looks of pity.

Slowly, you left, still moving slowly so as not to pull on your delicate flesh, you hobbled outside, but she stopped you at the door, smiling gently, just enough to know that she cared and not that she pitied you.