It’s a quiet, creeping thought that’s been growing inside me, born from too many moments of rejection, too many times of feeling like I’m too much — or maybe not enough.
Life has bruised me and left marks that won’t fade, no matter how hard I tried to cover them up. I used to think I was strong, that my scars made me interesting, even beautiful in a way. But now, when I look in the mirror, all I see are the flaws, the damage. The parts of me that feel unlovable.
I want to retreat. What’s the point of trying when the voice in my head whispers that I already lost? I’m tired — tired of pretending, tired of hoping. The bruises have become my constant companions, reminders of every time I’ve been hurt, every time I’ve been left behind.
No one wants bruised fruit. It’s a cruel thought, but it’s starting to feel true. Maybe I’m meant to be alone. Perhaps this is my fate: to carry my bruises in silence, to accept that I’m not the kind of person people choose.
