Can I drop the formalities and be myself
and let you into my world,
show you the pain behind my smile,
and the tears hidden in my eyes?
Let me open up and share my story,
the pain of my past
and the misery I've felt.
I've grown up in a Christian household
but I chose to call myself a Christ follower.
For years, life was amazing
and then I entered freshmen year
when I fell in love with a boy
with height of 6'2"
whom I thought looked upon me
like I was a diamond among rocks.
I gave my heart to him
and since then it has never been whole.
He treated me like a toy;
like I was his property and he had the right
to put me through hell
and send me spiraling into depression.
He left me in tears with the shattered
pieces of my broken heart in my hands
not once, but twice
because I was so foolish as
to go back and give him
a second chance.
Stupid move on my part.
For months I suffered and fell further
into depression and I gave in to my pain.
Inked upon my skin were words of negativity
and I looked in the mirror
with disgust at my own reflection.
I wanted to disappear.
I wanted to feel pain because
I couldn't feel joy.
I didn't want to be living
in this miserable, sinful world
Then God brought me a friend
that would be used to help me pick up
my broken pieces so that I could be
put back together again.
Months after this young man came
and kept my mind sane so that I could not
give in to my pain so much
that I would give up my life
because scratches on my arms
we became one in our hearts
and pursued a relationship more than
Even though I had support from my love,
I gave in to my pain still
and kept digging my nails in to my skin
and now I'm left with scars on my arms
that I chose to wear unashamed
because I have overcome them
and I have been made
victorious through my struggles
and I have grown strong.
Life is still chaotic
and my heart is still damaged;
cracked but bandaged, glued, and sewn.
I choose to stand strong
and embrace my pain because I am not weak.
Thank you for bearing with me
as I have shared my story,
but what is the point of writing
if one can't be real?