Age 14, Idaho, USA

Dear Me,
I hope you can forgive me. I knew better than to break that pencil sharpener. I needed a release, and this was what I’d chosen.

I was alone, bullied, broken, and hurt. Eighth grade, a group of boys beat up on me and every night a new group of lines added to my evergrowing collection.

I stopped eating. They’d said I was too fat.

I wore too much makeup. They said I wasn’t pretty enough.

Every day my collection grew until I had to find a new place. Weeks went by and sure enough I had to find a new place to keep my collection. I did it deeper and deeper, and more.

I hope you can forgive me for each and every mark I created, be it on the inside or out. I started smoking, stealing cigarettes from my father to numb the pain of what I’d done to myself. Over and over  this went on, until one day when I woke up in the hospital. My wrists and thighs were heavily wrapped in bandages. My mother there. She had tear stains on her cheeks. My father wouldn’t even look at me. And my brother… he’d been the one to find me. I was told he’d been crying for days.

I hope you can forgive me, but look at me now.