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.