Bruised

My fingertips run along my stomach, they’re cold. Tears drop from my eyes, they’re wet. Cold and wet. Like a raindrop in December.

How did I get myself into this? Months ago, nobody would ever see this coming. Nobody would believe it. But here I am now. I should have listened to my parents. I should have let them into my life, let them know what was wrong. Let them help.
I look into the mirror; I want to see my eyes. I want to see who I am beneath all of this, or if I’m still there. I start at my chin, and move up: My lips, red and cut, from biting them out of anxiety; my nose, crimson from wiping it so much; the area beneath my eyes, grey from fatigue, sunken from the lack of sleep. I move upwards, cell by cell. I see a glimpse of the deep brown, but I can’t bring myself to look into them. I quickly pull away.

I’m afraid of what I’ll see. If my eyes are no longer bright and full of hope for the future, but instead hollow and haunted by my mistakes. My eyes have always been the only betrayer of my hidden feelings, the only glimpse of who I am on the inside. Will my eyes give away my current secret? Will they strip down my defenses in the outside world and throw me out in the cold?
I lie back down and place my cold hands on my stomach. Images hazily dance through my mind: His warm, loving hands; my racing heart, so desperate to feel love, to feel beautiful. Thinking about where I am now, I would give away all the beauty in the world for my innocence back.