text: She looks in the mirror, and all she sees are black stains upon her body. They grow and they undulate, pulsing as she watches. Stains. She cuts and scratches at them, scrubs herself bloody, but still they remain. Every person that has hurt her, has left her or has willfully ignored her has left their own stain. She stands, watching her naked body. Watching the marks as they feed on her untainted skin. It shines through pure white, in contrast to the dark, and everyday it grows less and less. She looks at herself and thinks impure, dirty, broken. She feels, at this point, she could identify the black mark to the person. Her childhood friend, who took advantage and ultimately abused her is the stain across her forehead. Her lover, who laid with another, is the stain across her neck. Her mother, who would hit and scream and curse, is the stain across her stomach. The man she considered a brother, who took the last of her pureness and her childhood, is the stain across her middle. Her father, uncaring as she was abused and hurt, is the stain across her arms, her wrists. Her grandparents, who blame themselves for her abuse, is the stain across her thighs. Yes, she could name a person to each stain. But none could compare to the stain steadily works it's way through her brain, it's greasy tendrils stroking and probing their way through. She feels it; at night, when she's trying to sleep; in the day, when she has nothing to do. It whispers to her in those quiet moments, it drains her as it grows to a monstrous size. It stains. This stain is the worst, as it is the one created from within. Darkness, depression, sadness. A feeling of not being enough, of letting those closest to her down. Of being less than she was, and making her truly believe that. Those awful tentacles of doubt and of sadness massage her brain, making her think what they want, not what she wants. They drown out any other voice, with a sickening chorus that drones and drones and drones. A constant, it stains how she talks and how she feels; how she acts and how she thinks. It is endless. The pills didn't work to stop it's insidious spread, nor did the alcohol. Still, she would fill her senses and ignore her pain with that cutting spirit, to try and forget the horrors of days well past. All the while, not realising that it directly lent itself to the horrors of her current days. Sleepless nights and words she wished unsaid, actions done that were forever irrevocable. She feels these indelible marks every waking moment. They haunt her, they are the glance out of the corner of her eye and the whisper heard in an empty room. She spends her days terrified that those around her will see them too, and think her too dirty. Too damaged. Beyond help. Yet, daily, those around her prove her wrong. Their love and their warmth waken her heat, keep it beating. Slowly but surely, their love will help to shrink those awful stains. They will never be gone, not truly, but they can be minimised; can be worked around. For she is not made of her stains, but made of the clean, unmarked skin around them. The people who caused those stains do not deserve those black marks upon her skin, do not deserve the daily woes they cause her. They do not deserve the awful feeling that accompanies any kind of abuse, the feeling of 'I am now a victim', which is screamed at you by every professional around. A hand thrusts through the riptide, and is grasped by the golden light of those around her, pulling her out of that deep, dark sea. A thousand hands, gripping and grabbing and helping her stand on solid ground. She is better than her stains, and she has and always will be a survivor.