"i mess things up. it's what i do. it's who i am.
i take things that are perfect and figure out ways to screw them up. i try too hard, worry to much. i'm emotional. i'm complicated. my mind is my own worst enemy. every new thought is just a recipe f...
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I look at the boy in front of me. His eyes are murky pools of darkness. His ink-black hair resembles a bird's nest and his once milky-white skin, now a canvas of black and blue.
I stare, transfixed, as I watch the stark red liquid drip from his lip over his ghostly pale chin down to his neck until it disappears into his muscle tee.
Shaking myself out of my reverie, I release a deep sigh before turning away from the mirror, shedding my clothes and stepping into the shower. I turn the tap to a scalding temperature.
Every drop of water sends an excruciating pain through my body. I grit my teeth as the multiple cuts on my body sting and my skin turns red.
After a few minutes under the water my body adjusts to the temperature and I feel my muscles begin to relax. The water soothes some of my aches and pains to a dull throb.
Ten minutes later I'm standing in front of the mirror again- a towel wrapped around my waist. Now clear of any blood, I can see every scar covering my face down to my torso.
I stare blankly, trying to conjure up some emotion but I only feel numb. Somehow, I know that being numb is worse than anything I could feel.
I breathe a sigh of exhaustion as I open the kit lying on the counter. As gently as I can, I slowly apply concealer to hide the bruises.
Suddenly, I let out a harsh laugh.
The sound so cold and empty, it brings tears to my eyes. But despite how bone chilling it is, I continue to laugh.
I laugh at the irony. I, the boy who messes with other guys for not being 'manly' enough, is an expert at applying make-up.
I laugh at the fact that I tease kids who can't stand up for themselves against bullies, yet I can't do the same for myself.
I laugh at everything and nothing.
My laugh comes to an abrupt halt when i break out into a coughing fit as my body can longer handle the strain exerted on it.
I groan and place a tender hand around my midsection. Once the pain subsides some, I pick up where I left off.
Satisfied that all marks are concealed, I place all the products back in a little box and close the lid.
I pad across the bathroom and step into my room.
I make my way to the closet and pull off a hanger holding my school uniform.
I slip on my navy blue slacks with a red-and-white checkered fold at the bottom, followed by my crisp white shirt.
I button up my shirt and then tuck it into my pants, sliding my black belt through the loops of my pants. Next I tug on my maroon cardigan with the school crest over the left side of my lower breast bone and two navy blue rings over both sleeves of my upper arms.
