Say what you want about me,
tell me that you don’t believe me, tell me that you don’t think I deserve it, or that I can do it.
Think what you want about me,
think that I’m lazy, think that I shouldn’t be sad, think that I’m so far gone so you won’t even try.
Treat me how you feel about me,
be mean to me, be passive towards me, treat me like the kid you still want me to be.
Fine. Do it.
You can speak, you can think, and you can treat me differently.
But you don’t define me anymore.
You’ve cut me open and I bled out, but open wounds turn into scabs and scars.
And everyone knows to be careful so that you don’t get injured a second time.