Scars

Minnie came about 4 days into my stay at the hospital. She had a beautiful smile and was good at pretending she was ok. We had this in common. Minnie had tried to cut off her own hand. She showed us all the cut. Everyone thought it was disgusting, other than me. I thought it was beautiful. There is something about wounds that I found lovely. Maybe it was the sear the knife made and how the bright red would slowly envelop my skin, and I could watch and give myself the power to do this. Or maybe it was the reminder that I was a living, breathing, human being with skin and bones, and layers, but most of all, feelings. The people that surrounded me exploited my feelings on a regular day-to-day basis. My soul was bleeding from the names I had been called. Mostly slut. Everyone has a different tolerance for how much shit they can take in life. Taylor’s was high, and so was Minnie’s. Minnie’s mother was a drug addict and hurt her both emotionally and physically. She finally was taken into foster care. Minnie told me that she had been so scarred by what her mother did to her that she blamed herself. She was still smiling.