I've felt tired and unable to breathe lately. My skin itches and lungs refuse from filling and even though it's december i find myself running to my room, losing my shirt, and opening the window. I enjoy sitting here alone, knowing it's only me.

I worship my own skin, sleeping in nude more often than not - my skin is my only freedom and I know that I don't even own the only things that actually are my own, and they are my mind, body and soul. 

Sometimes I look at my body in the mirror and wonder when I started hating it.
(I remember it, though. So I doesn't take that long.)
After a while, though, I search every scar and stretch mark and every kiss of an angel and count them.
I know how I got the scar on my cheek, and those vicious little lines on my ankles.
I admire the lighter spot under my left breast and my bare feet, flat against the floor. I admire the way my thighs look when it's dark.
It's been a while since I haven't hated my body - the only thing people know of me. Stranger, especially. Been a while since I haven't spend a moment in a day spitting ugly words at it.

But however, it's been a while since i've hurt it. Since i've caused bruises to myself, scars.