The past never dies

The past never dies and eyes never lie

Both things people have said to me

And i still live by to this day

Cause how can you say that the past dies

 When i remember every little detail

Of my sick and twisted childhood

That i wish i could change

But i don’t know if i would

Cause would i still be the same person

If i didn’t have to hide my wrist from my mom when i was 7 years old

Or that i was scared every night that my mom would end up getting hit too hard

When i was 4

All these things that have made me who i am today

So the question is

Would I still be the same without all this trauma?

If my innocence wasn’t robbed from me when i was just learning to walk

I didn’t even know how to talk yet when i found out that men can’t keep it in their pants

Why? Why?

Why am i the only who has to live off this and act like i’m fine

When people say they get it

Do they really get it?

Do they get the fear or the tears i cried when my own blood chose drugs over me

Like i was just some pawn that you could sell

And forget about the next day

So don’t say you get it

Because no one knows the feeling of your own kin turning their back on you

When your begging for their attention

Begging to be heard or seen

But to only get shunned or heartbroken

If you walked in my skin, you’d feel the jail

You’d feel the knife against my thigh

 When i had nothing else to turn to

Except a dirty sharpener blade

That i had found at school and took off its protection

So now i could feel release

But is self-harm the best way to get peace?