While looking through the notes on my phone I found a piece I wrote nearly this time last year. I wasn’t going through the best of times, but by the time I wrote this I think I could effectively ‘see the light in the darkness’, so here:
I have scars on my wrists,
And bruises on my knuckles,
With broken veins and a broken heart.
I have a void where I should have life,
A hole where I should find love,
Yet still I am alive.
I have scratches and marks aplenty,
And cold that runs so deep,
But somehow I am thawing.
I have scars, yes,
But they’re not all so bad,
They show that I have lived,
And survived a lot of things.
Perhaps to the others my hardships
Are nothing but minor setbacks,
But to me they cut too deep
To ever really hide.
I have family and friends,
And I love them all so much,
And it’s thanks to them that I’m still here.
I have love,
Not that I can always see it,
But I know that it’s always there.
So thank you, every one of you,
Who has held me when I’ve cried
And helped me to my feet.
Thank you every one of you,
For the solidarity I needed.
Now I’m not going to pretend that I’m particularly good at poetry, but it’s always been a way for me to express myself; I’ve never been much of a talker and so at a young age I realised that I could far more easily convey myself through the use of written rather than verbal communication.
This poem, sort of named The Scars On My Wrists, was my way of trying to look at my depression. I’m not sure what else I can say about it because I think the poem says enough, at least in the best way I can express.