THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS 

I find it kind of sad but no matter where I go, what I am doing, who I am talking to, I will always without a doubt look at their skin for scars. If their sleeve goes up, I stare intently at their arm, if their pant leg moves, I scan their flesh for the tell tale signs. I am horribly disappointed when I don’t see anything, no soft pink lines, or angry red slashes. I want to touch everyone’s skin, and find their depressions and their failures. I want to see that I am not fucking alone in all of this. 

I stand in front of my mirror and I find nothing weird about the amount of scars that riddle my body like bullet holes. I find nothing wrong with seeing them scab and flake. I find clean thighs and flawless arms weird. 

This is how i see myself everyday. Fat, Scarred, worthless, rotting.