the truth is..

i beat myself up in every possible way.
most people drink to have fun, let loose, enjoy themselves. i drink because i love destroying myself, my reality, i get to see how worthless i am, the real me underneath it all.
most people smoke, because it’s social or an addiction.
i smoke because i love the fact it’s killing me in a socially acceptable way and noone can stop me.
most people stay silent about they’re problems because they’re scared of judgement or what people will think. i tell people what’s going on, but never how i feel, i keep how i feel to myself, it eats me alive, constant death to me on the inside.
when most people cut they tell someone, 99% of the time i don’t. people think it;s a once a month sort of thing for me, it’s not. i love ripping myself into pieces, bleeding, praying that this time it’ll just keep seeping out.
people say they’re depressed or that they feel like shit. but those words are fucking useless when it comes to describing how it really feels. how it feels to destroy yourself in any possible way, internally, silently, socially, physically, and isn’t it sad that noone realises just how serious someone is until they’ve got scars or end up in hospital, and even then people convince themselves that that person did it for attention. maybe they did it because they love the idea or dying more then they could ever love living.
i love people far too easily and deny it to myself. i love the wrong people most of the time, because it doesn’t take much for me to love someone. all anyone has to do is say something nice, something i can’t believe in myself and boom, you’ve got me hooked.
i am addicted to my own pain. this may seem selfish, and it probably is.
one night i told you just how sad i felt, how i wanted to die, and i was shocked by your reaction. shocked by the fact that i feel this everyday, but noone ever bothered enough to realise or take me seriously. how could i not be serious.
how could you overlook me so severly for so long.now i never wanted this to happen, for things to end up this way, and the truth is. now i think i’ve found something i love more then my addiciton. fuck man.

this isn’t a cry for help, nor is it a sympathy plea.

i struggle to love myself more than i love beating myself up.

one.

It’s an addiction, not for attention.

Blood, washed away under taps of sorrow.

Unnatural compulsive forces, urge towards the desires.

Words that can not be spoken without judgement.

Clean, organised lines.

There are never enough cuts.

White scars more beautiful with each addition.

Every movement burns and it’s love.

The beauty in seeing what you can not say out loud.

The feel of the skin as it pulls together.

The psychotic voices in your head rejoicing.

The shame in knowing you are appalling, but can not stop.

Loss of control over hands.

Nonsense consonant’s tumble from your mouth.

Focus unbalanced, choking on numbness.

Splits in formerly smooth surfaces.

Real pain is not in the blood shed.

It’s the memories that haunt your soul.

Trauma felt for years that follow.

The brain tries to forget what the heart cannot.

It’s an addiction, not for attention.

Blood, washed away under taps of sorrow.

Unnatural compulsive forces, urge towards the desires.

Words that can not be spoken without judgement.

I tell my love to wreck it all
Cut out all the ropes and let me fall