ME

I can feel the cold steel of the blade pressing against my skin again.

I can hear the whisper of the voice that tells me how easy it will be.

I can see the blood welling up from the first shallow cut.

I feel myself beginning to feel better because hurting on the outside makes the hurt on the inside lessen.

I see the blood on the floor, on the towel. I can’t believe I did it again.

I feel the guilt swell in my breast, making me sick to my stomach.

I find my sweatshirt. The one that covers my shame.

I clean up the blood. I throw away the evidence.

I lie, to cover the truth. “It was an accident.”  “Cut it while washing dishes.”

I look into the calf eyes of these idiotic people who can’t see my decline.

I want to scream out that I’m falling apart. Why can’t they see that??

I want to yell the truth: “I cut myself to keep away the demons that are eating me on the inside.”

Why do they only see the facade? The lies covering the pain?

Am I that good of an actress that no one sees? Or is it that they just don’t care?

I pretend that I’m okay.

I cry myself to sleep every night.

I pray for the courage to end the pain. I have the power.

I pray for the courage to keep on going. My son needs me.

Is this enough to make me stay?

I don’t know.

That is my answer to everything now… “I don’t know”

How can I tell her that she ripped out my soul when she told him she loved him?

How can I tell him that I allow him to abuse me, because that saves me the trouble of abusing myself?

How can I tell my family that I am not who I’ve been pretending to be?

How can I tell my “friends” that they’re a bunch of selfish assholes that deserve what they get?

How can I tell my mother that I hate her for making bulimia acceptable?

How can I tell my father that I hate him for being so oblivious to everything?

How can I confess to sins that I can’t allow myself to feel?

How do I start loving myself when no one loves me?

How do I make myself okay, when clearly I’m not?

How do I gain the courage to keep on feeling, when all I want to be is numb?

I need someone that cares enough to answer the phone at 3am.

I need to stop caring about them when they don’t care about me.

I am looking for love in so many wrong ways and places.

I’ll never care about anyone the way I cared about him, and her.

I want to let her go. I need to release her, and she needs to release me.

I burn every day, and everyone looks right through me.

I need someone to talk to. Someone that isn’t a professional.

I hate therapy, though I’ve sought help.

I don’t deserve help.

I don’t deserve shit.

I tried to overdose…

I can’t take enough to make me sleep.

I need to sleep.

I need to have energy.

I have nothing.

I am standing, looking down the barrel of a loaded gun, and I am not afraid.

I am sitting, holding a blade to my vein. And I am not afraid.

I am standing on the edge of a cliff. Looking down. And I am not afraid.

I am terrified. I want to live. I want to die.

I want freedom, but I’m used to being chained.

I need love, but I can’t give it.

I seek forgiveness, but I don’t bestow it.

I look for acceptance, but I don’t accept.

I want her, and she doesn’t want me anymore. She has a new love.

I want him, and he doesn’t want me. He has a thousand loves.

I hate who I am. I hate who I’ve become. I hate the woman in the mirror.

I don’t look in the mirror anymore. I am distorted and bloated and ugly.

I don’t care anymore.

I want to care… It’s just too much effort.

I hate my scars, but I’m oddly proud of them. Another sign of survival.

I want to live, but I’m scared to.

I want to die, but I’m scared to.

I don’t believe in me anymore.

I don’t believe in anything anymore.

I am lost.

I will never be found.

I am terrified and sick and lonely and sad.

I am numb and gone and absent.

I feel too much, and care too little.

Or do I care too much and feel too little?

I cannot stand anymore.

I’m falling.

I will die.

We all do.

But I don’t want it to be by my own hand….