My father had taught me to be nice first, because you can always be mean later, but once you’ve been mean to someone, they won’t believe the nice anymore. So be nice, be nice, until it’s time to stop being nice, then destroy them.
Do not mock a pain that you haven’t endured.
These are not battle scars.
These are not proof of survival.
My riddled body is not so poetic.
The fact that they exist proves I was
very sad and very sick.
The fact that they are scar tissue proves I am progressing.
This was never supposed to be poetry.
There is no romance in pain.