I wonder what kind of messed up thoughts they had about me to do what they did to me. I keep asking myself what they saw when they looked at me, what could have possibly gone through their mind to make them believe they had the right to take something that was never theirs. No matter how much I try to understand it, I can't. Maybe I never will. Every cut I make feels like I'm trying to erase their traces from my body, as if pain could somehow wash away what they left behind. I know it doesn't. I know the scars don't undo the past. But for a moment, it feels like I'm taking back control over something that was stolen from me. And then the feeling fades, leaving me with the same emptiness, the same memories, the same questions that never seem to have an answer.