I hide them in my makeup bag,
Which is a very appropriate place to me.
I feel like I am a train running off of its tracks,
Slowly, with time.
When I have good days, it’s harder for me to imagine the bad ones.
I am just weak, I am over-reacting, being dramatic.
But when I have the bad days,
It seems like it destroys every good day I have had before.
It feels like the bottom of a pit,
This black creature slowly devouring me,
But it isn’t black,
It’s definitely white
So white it’s sterile,
It hurts my eyes.
I feel what others feel,
I laugh when they laugh,
I cry when they cry
Why am I the one who feels like I am going to die.
Even this statement I wish to immediately retract,
But I force myself to reason that this is a feeling
That I have.
I feel defective
Like something is missing.
I cry for no reason without my permission
Is this what crazy is
I ask myself this while stroking the cuts on my arms and hips,
And one stupid one on my palm that stings as I write this
Cutting is for preteens and suicidal narcissists
Why do I do it after nearly 2 months without doing it
The feeling of it on my skin
Still brings this punishment that I inflict on myself,
Not for any reason but because I am angry
I am angry that I am weak
That I feel like a child
That I cry more than I smile
That I feel fat and ugly and stupid and worthless when I am none of this
So why do I keep doing this after those 2 months of abstaining from abusing
Guilt is like a tree it seems to me
It grows and gets taller and has symmetry
It grows proportionally with my anxiety and anxiousness
That I experience every time I walk out of my bedroom door
It’s hard to knock down a tree
It takes fire or an axe
None of which I seem to possess
So it grows.
Why am I so lonely and defective
Unable to connect with
Why do I feel pain and not love
Feel far away from those who matter most
I smile vacantly so they do not know
That my feelings lay so shallow
Despite their importance.
I crave touch but I find myself
Flinching from it
I want a hug but my hugs only touch so much
I want to be grabbed and squeezed and told it’s going to be okay
Because despite this sea of sadness I know I am going to be fine
I feel embarrassed by my weakness but I can get over this
I just want something to change
No one to notice
But some love would be nice
Something I can get into
I need to feel someone else’s skin so I don’t just keep memorizing the lines of my sins on my arms and my hips
Because cuts and contusions
Are symptoms of self-delusion
I need to feel skin unbroken from self-anger and hate
So I can remember what it feels like to be okay.