I miss the scars. I miss the way the blade felt; sliding it across my skin, and watching the lines of blood drip onto the other ones. I miss the sensation. I miss it all and I don’t know how much more I can take

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  • me: why are those guys staring at me
  • me: is there something on my face
  • me: is there something on my shirt
  • me: they're probably laughing at how ugly i am
  • me: they probably find it amusing how fat i am
  • friend: maybe they think you're cute
  • me: are you retarded or something