And I was eaten by butterflies

CW: subtle mentions of self harm

Butterflies kiss my scars in summer, when my thighs and legs are bare. People tend to underestimate how bad my scars really are and do not think about how many of them there are. I honestly have lost count of how many there. Hundreds? Thousands? Something around those are areas.

I always lie to people about what happened. A mirror fell on me as a child. That I got into an accident somehow. To a child, it's believable. To an adult? not so much. But still, I don't really care that they think that's a lie. I would rather delude myself like always because that's just something I am good at.

And I stare at myself in the mirror, not accepting kisses of lies and a ghost that haunts my hallway. I don't need kisses of acceptance on my thighs, arms, legs, face or anywhere else? Maybe I am lying. Maybe I do need that — instead of inviting liars into my bed.

Do I even deserve any of that? "I showed you my whole life written on me so now you need to show me comfort?". It's a language most people can't understand. How? What? Why? How did you do that? What? Why would you do that?

I want the peace of the lavender field I want to see. I want the comfort of a person telling me "Hey you look down today, are you okay? I want the love of when you see a picture of a daughter in a dad's wallet. But like I said; butterflies kiss my scars in summer, when my thighs and legs are bare.

And that makes me feel worth something even if that is just somewhere for them to land.

image doesn't belong to me