Sleeves.

While some people have tattoos covering every inch of their body, I have scars. On my arms, my thighs, my ankles, my calves, my chest, my breasts, my tummy, my feet. I hurt myself. I wish that it had never come to this. I wish that I could have said to myself all those months ago, 'Alice, put the blade down'. But I can't. It is done. And now I spend every day hiding what I am from others. For fear of hatred. For fear of being called attention seeking. For fear that someone will look at me think I am as disgusting as I feel. But being stuck in this skin is unbearable. How can I accept myself if I can't even be honest about who I am? I've got to the point where I just want to roll up my sleeves and say 'This is me. I am what I am. Accept it or piss off.' Because although it's not pretty, it's what I have made of myself. I have no idea who I am inside but I look at myself and I know what has happened. I'm sick of feeling this way. I'm sick of lying, of hiding, of cringing away from the body that I have marked. It's not the scars that I'm scared of showing, it's what they reveal. 

And the image that inspires me, though it's original intent is far from this: