Slash. Cut. Burn.

There are times when I wish my parents would hit me. So, I could show evidence of all the scars and wounds on me. But nothing. My parents know when to keep a mask on. They could show the world that our family is perfect and loving. They could make others feel at home but were unable to do the same with their daughter.

I let my head drop whilst I listen to the harsh words coming from my own mother. The words tumble out of her mouth effortlessly, as if she was stating the obvious. I let those words sink into me, eat me alive, swallow my soul. Despite this, my mother doesn’t stop.

Slash. Cut. Burn. I look around. Blood. Everything is blurry. Every word, every sentence my parents said to me is drawn on my body. Creating permanent scars. Haunting me.

I cover it up quick. No one should know. I hide everything with a quick smile.

My mother comes in. She cries and cries. I feel my heart break, every scar tearing apart. My mother apologises. I forgive.

Slash. Cut. Burn. It all happens again.