every night i go to bed with hate in my head,

and yet every morning, as i get out of bed,

the hate is still there; i still hate myself.

i can’t get this self-hatred taste out of my mouth.

 

say it’s just a bad day; it’s no surprise

that you are completely unable to open your eyes

to how i’m feeling, because you’re happy, and i’m happy for you,

but that happiness is not something that i can do.

 

i make my skin crawl; i make my skin bleed.

i dig into it, hard, with my dull little teeth,

and i pick it with tweezers, and slice it with plastic,

and through these guilty pleasures i get a pleasurable kick.

 

the pain doesn’t hurt like the not-pain all does.

it’s a sting, an ache, maybe a soft “ouch” at most.

the not-pain’s a blanket of sharp salty white noise

that drowns out my thoughts and my own little voice.

 

i can’t break through this blanket; my teeth do no good,

like the scars on my arms all tell me they should,

and i’m stuck, underneath it, with no real hope.

i can’t live life like this; there’s no way to cope -

 

- with this pit in my stomach, though it’s more like a hole

that eats at my insides and sucks out my soul,

and with every piece of my skin i chip off,

i’m commanding that hole to please just please stop.

 

i am not a person but a vessel of anxiety

that does nothing but increase in intensity.

i don’t hurt myself with intentions to die;

i just want to kiss “overwhelming” goodbye.