Warning: This poem contains explicit words.
Fact 1: I have spent £5.87 on self help books
Fact 2: I have read 60p worth of these books
Now this isn't down to my laziness or apathy but sifting through diet trials or jogging a few miles or organising my work files
isn't the answer I'm looking for.
See for years I've had this burning inside of me, like a lava pit in my stomach, flames licking up my ribcage
I wonder now why it does not make my heart feel any less cold.
Fact 3: for 2 years I thought this was depression, but I don't want to die anymore and neither does the fire.
Fact 4: It has been a year since I realised that this is the feeling of self loathing
See my loathing is not dark or distant. It is aching, blazing and chafing an ABC of depravity,
see, my self loathing is a lot like me.
I am the girl, the one mothers are afraid of, the hushed silence in a crowd, the barbed wire that locks you out. All wrapped up into one beautiful fucking catastrophe, eroding at my sanity.
because there is only so long I can cope.
I am a broken person stitched together with good intentions,
but when the thread is in a sweet shade of pink no one seems to think that I
could be the one to break them.
But I will, with no intentions or preventions I will burn anyone who tries to reach inside.
So no, I do not need a diet trial, to jog a few miles or organise any files.
I just want love myself
So £5.87 can go fuck itself.