About Me

What the fuck are you supposed to write in an about me?
Because let me tell you something, they don’t actually want to know about you.
What they’re looking for is something along the lines of,
“Hi my name’s Sunflower and I like coffee coolers and rainbows.”
So I sit there staring at that ominous box, the type cursor flashing, demanding I write something.
But what I have to say, no-one wants to hear.
I take a long deep breath, I start to type. 

Hi, I am a ticking time bomb composed of flesh and bone.
I am paper skin, pulled too tight over brittle bones that threaten to snap under the weight of my own thoughts.
Thoughts that gnaw away at me day and night,
ever since I was 12 years old, and a girl with the world in her pocket told me to go and kill myself.
I carved her words out onto my skin, like they were poetry and I was the paper. 

Turning my life into one long flirtation with razor blade edges and empty smiles
Even now those words still echo around the prison of my mind.
Reminding me that I am worthless, an empty shell without a soul.
That I’m the expendable girl who gets forgotten by everyone.
Because no-one wanted to be friends with the girl who took so damn long to walk home, because the pavement is littered with cracks.
They told me to snap out of it, to get a grip, that they’re just gaps in the cement.
But all I saw were land mines, grenades, my body blown apart as my foot touched the ground.

Those cracks materialised as bittersweet slices on my skin 

I had become the thing that I was most afraid of, what I tried to avoid. 

I locked myself away, I built up walls so high that I couldn’t see past the darkness.
I couldn’t see how anyone could ever love such a broken mind, a pathetic body.
So I locked myself away, a life that was not worth saving.
Locked my emotions in a box, placed it on the top shelf, where I couldn't reach.

But here’s the thing..
I am still so young, and those scars on my skin have faded with time.
But I can still feel them, see them, as the light shines through the trees.
Highlighting the fact that I’m alive, that I’m still standing.
I’m a sore loser, and for the life of me I can’t stand the thought of the bullies winning.

I'll fill the cracks with ink, my canvas to start anew. 

They’ll remain below the surface, a private memory that I survived.
That I was brave enough to stand up and live.
So here’s what I’ll write in your fucking about me,
Hi, I’m Leah, and I survived.