You once asked me where I got all my scars, and I said, “it’s from people who have the concept of love and pain all blurred together, who thought they have a right to my body just because they ‘love’ me, from people who thought that to love is to have, and to commit is to possess, and that the only way they knew I love them was if I said yes every time. It’s from people who doesn’t believe in gentle kisses and warm hugs, it’s from people who loved with hatred in their hearts, from people who thought that the only way to have me, and to claim me as their own, was if they left something tangible of their existence on me, so they painted my skin every time, with bruises, scratches, and cuts, and marked me with their burnt out cigarettes.”
I smiled to him. “You can count my scars love, but gently please, it still hurts. It never stops hurting.”
//excerpt from a book i’ll never write #16
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Sometimes I avoided to write topics like this because it’s just so so so painful, you have no idea how much it pains me to write this.