The Scars We Don't See✓

Resides

Sylva

Being born out of wedlock had it's perks, some of which were segregation, avoidance, and bullying.

The snide remarks thrown my way were very hard to miss as I walked down the hallway.

Dressed in black, with my headphones on, I was the picture of nonchalance, because in this country, looks were all that mattered. And projecting that you don't care keeps the bullies at bay.

Or so they say.

To be honest, most people only thought I didn't care because I was a guy. Because why would the tall, buff, good-looking guy dressed in black have feelings?

It was a stereotype I had gotten used to- people taking one look at me and deciding I was the perfect target for their emotional frustrations.

But inside I was slowly breaking from the storm.

The stress of my parents, the constant noise and fighting, the rude comments from random strangers who didn't know anything about me or my history, judging me for something I had no control over.

If my heart was a house, life had made it a permanent residence for heartbreaks and pain.

And these angry eyes had absolutely no idea they were pushing me, every day, one step closer to the edge.