It Still Hurts, but in a Different Way

Just Call me Elm Or Something

When I look in the mirror, all I see is a very vague outline, with some blotches of something else here and there.

I can’t see my face.

The funny thing is, I don’t even care. No, it’s true: I really don’t give a shit. Never seen, never will, won’t cry over something I can’t change. It effects me sometimes, but not often.

That’s not what I want to talk about.

I’m not fat.

I’m not ugly.

I don’t look like a troll.

That’s what I’ve been told. And I know it’s true: my wrists are too skinny, but I’ve been told I’m pretty. I have to believe people, because if I don’t, I can’t trust them.

That doesn’t mean I’m not insecure about my physical appearance. I’m just… It just manifests in a different way.

Okay. This is going to sound odd, but just bare with me?

Close your…

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