"Roll 'em up."
"You know exactly what I mean. Now roll them up or I'll do it myself."
((She can see the tears welling in her mom's worried eyes...this happens everytime.))
She looks around the room; hoping for a distraction((the one that never comes)). Her mom stares knowingly at the long sleeve ((but it's Summer?)) she has fixed between her thumb and forfinger. ((Pinching so tightly, wishing that her mom would just give up.))
Tension. She's still waiting for her mom to leave the room. No matter how much her mom begs her, she'll never be able to reveal all those horrible reminders that shine across her once perfect skin.
Every line and ridge under her American Eagle flannel ((the one her mom bought for her)) screaming the same horror story.
It plays over
like the music she plays to drown out her sobs (("How did I become this?"))
the tears falling ((almost in rhythm to the music))
mixing with the crimson rush of relief ((she so desperately needs now...))
Her mom starts talking again, but she isn't listening.
Her attention has drifted away again...
drifted behind her locked door of every night ((she can remember since it all began))
drifted to her skin (("Why would you do that to yourself?!"))
drifted to the times she's needed it the most ((the nights she couldn't feel anything...100 lines until finally she was alive enough to cry herself to sleep.))
"Why can't you just be normal?!"
She always catches the end of it.
The part that was always the hardest to ignore
...in a few minutes her mom will calm down.
Stop crying enough to mumble something about her baby girl.
She haytes making her mom cry,
"...but it's better than having to admit ((to you Mom, the person I use to laugh with)) that I'd rather drag a razor blade across my skin ((watching the blood you gave me run down the arms I use to hug you with)) than show you how I can't feel ((anything anymore))."
I use to be your little girl...how did this happen?