told by others anymore;

for a while I would 

carve 

every single one of them 

into my skin 

every thin, pale scar a tally,

a reminder 

- like I would learn from my own mistakes

laughable

I’m sure it made sense at one point,

but now I’ve lost the fucking plot.

He must have told me 

I love you

a hundred times -

I don’t have enough untouched skin

for his fucking lies