Scars

Somewhat graphic.

Scars.
I'm littered with them.

They pull my skin in horrid ways,
Crossing in obscure shapes.

They show my bleeding heart,
My injured mind,
My torn up skin,
It's all mine.

They pull one eye down,
Slice my throat,
I'm unrecognizable, just from those.

There's one on my palm,
It's not thin at all,
It is a carved wound
In the shape of a skull.

There are white lines on my fingers,
Patches on my nose,
Slices on my ankles,
Missing parts of toes.

My hands look disfigured,
My arms are barely tan,
But littered with pink and white,
And discolored patches of skin.

My back is torn,
Patches pink and red.
My wrist's look as if they belong to a cutter,
My throat as if I want to be dead.