10/02/2015
10/02/2015
Exactly one year ago I was sitting in my room, thinking about her. All I could care about was that four-later-named girl. One year ago I did not care that my mother had found my suicidal thoughts and my strong dead wish on a refused plate of food, because the harm, the cuts and the wounds I carved on my body were nothing compared to the words that my mind screamed out every time I took a breath. Because an empty stomach and the weight loss somehow filled my days with just one more reason to wake up for. I still wonder how she was the only exception for me, and how my feelings could all be lies created by my sick brain. The joy I felt hearing that she wasn't smiling anymore made me realise that I was no good. I have made demons grow in each and everyone's mind. So here I am, in my bed, with these burning questions coming through. Why did it hurt then? Why haven't you give up on her yet? What is love really? How do you know if you love someone? Do you even have the right to be here?
I have started to be obsessed with being clean. I spent hours showering, trying to wash the guilt away, but no matter how hard I scrub, the blood stains won't get off my scarred, fragile, damaged skin. The angst I feel when someone get's closer to me is unbearable, because I'm always scared that they'll in someway see me for what I really am.
But lately I've been noticing beauty in everything; in the way my mother embraces her son, the way nature makes everything grow back again, the way it gives us a second chance every time, the way that your eyes light up when you talk about the things you love the most. There is so much beauty around me and I don't quite fit in. Maybe that's why the girl who wrecked my life and I got along so well; she didn't either.
- (4AM thoughts) 10/02/2015
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