Wrapping my blanket around myself tightly, I face the wall. I wish I wasn’t so fucking weak. That I didn’t crave the comfort of physical touch. I hate that I need reassurance from the people around me that they don’t hate me. Tears burn my eyes, and I don’t try to hold them in. There’s no soul-altering sobs racking my body, just the sting of anxiety-fueled desperation pricking at my heart to drip down my face and dampen my pillow. Pain leaving a mark on the fabric that will be washed away like it never existed. If only the internal scars could be washed away as easily.
