What Teens Say

The Door

It’s dark in here,
I can’t find my way out.
I’m falling deeper and deeper
Into your trap.
Your lies are blinding me
Restricting my every breath
Holding me against my will.
And all of a sudden,
Something hits me in the face.
What is it?
I have no idea what this is.
Could it be?
Happiness finally found me again?
As I linger towards you,
Your mysterious ways taunt me
But the door opens slightly
My curiosity, overwhelming.
I hear yelling, coming from within
“Go towards the light, Kate. It’s okay.”
Happiness has it’s ways.

Sent from my iPhone

I may not be how you want me to be, but I am comfortable in my own skin.

 

Who am I without my scars? Where do I find identity?
Though I say that I live in the moment I fear that I have begun to find identity in the past. Have I become a post-recovery self-mutilator? Or am I Trever: the man—the complex being?
Without my scars I would feel almost naked. I would be insecure because of my smooth, unblemished skin. I have become my scars—my scars are who I am. It is a difficult thing to say, and even harder to acknowledge as truth.
I will not be that way anymore. I cannot be that way anymore. I have come to far to continue a life in the past. I have grown too much to find identity in my childhood. My scars are the past and I don’t need them to be secure in my own life.
I thought I’d moved past my addiction: I’ve thrown away the blade; the price has been paid yet the receipt remains. So now I scream at the top of my lungs as I did years ago, this time to a new stronghold: “Goodbye my scars. I don’t need you anymore. My identity is not in you, you do not control me, we are through. You will one day fade, my body will decay, but my heart will remain. I am not scars, I am man.”

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