Apr 12
Crossroad
I am incredibly careless, people say. Collecting bruises on my arms like honor decorations. Cuts and burns whose origins I cannot remember for the life of me. But I might trail over them every now and then. Mapping them out with my fingertips. Where have I been? Will they ever really fade? When the praise had long gone dry. And no one else seemed to mind them too. Standing at the crossroad now. Between what might be and had been. I can still hear them screaming and feel their nails on my skin.
