December 3, 2015 § Leave a comment

My eyes are bleeding. Mascara wands and dirty foundation’ed fingers and I’m crying. Fucking myself to boredom. Wine in plastic cups, licking the rims. I am alone and I want company of someone, do I really want anyone?

I think I’m better, so much improvement, then I think about my behaviour. Hoping I’m a sociopath, that it’s not really because I’m still hurt, broken. I’m rationalizing because I know it’s the latter. But why?

I should be happy. HappiER. I’m still fucking around and starving, drinking and pilling, treating myself terribly, want to rip down all the mirrors. That’s a lie because I need those mirrors, the scale. I wish I didn’t care but I can’t just be myself without some kind of outside acknowledgment, proof I’m there. Do I still exist?

I’m a shell. A human icicle protected, however fragile, from the emotion and caring that I so desperately want and won’t accept.


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