That\'s a lie.
Words hurt.
Sticks and stones may bruise me,
But words will scar.
The bruise might fade,
But my scar—I can always look back on it and remember the day.
Words hurt.
They do.
I know.
I’ve heard a lot of things from a lot of people.
I let them talk. I let them speak.
And I never tried to stop them,
Because I believe.
Ugly. Fat. Weak.
Too small. Too sensitive. Too tall.
\"Stop eating—it might help.\"
\"Why are you so buff for your age?\"
\" I\'m just using her. She means nothing to me.\"
Yes, I’ve heard it all.
In so many ways, I carry scars—mentally and physically.
It haunts me at night like a nightmare dressed as a dream.
Oh, right. One more thing:
\"You\'re overdramatic. Stop complaining.\"
\"Can you stop talking for one minute?\"
Yeah. I almost left that out.
Nobody noticed I had started to bleed—
Not until the wound was gushing.
I guess I have to wrap it,
Hide it under a sleeve.
Because if others ever see it,
They’ll just judge me and look,
Before ever asking
What happened to me