Warning! Gore, depictions of obvious mental illness and acts of self harm!!

I lay in my bed rotting away like an apple that’s been plucked from a tree, I decide to stand up. Do something, not feel so…empty? Filled with abyss? Disgusting? is there even a word that can summarize this feeling I’m filled with? I don’t want to live like this.

As I stand up, my vision darkens, my eyesight becomes blurry and a gut wrenching feeling in my head takes over. each step further from my bed, my jail cell, only makes me long it’s comfort more.

I stand in front of my mirror but it’s not right, I’m not right, what’s staring back at me is not who I am but a hallucination of what people must see. I’ve been alienated from my body, it’s all too foreign and surreal. I bite the flesh of my cheek as I look at the person I merely don’t recognize. I despise the person in the mirror, a despicable, horrid person. My identity, stolen by those who envy me, those who watch me.

That can’t be me.

Why do I feel like this? Or more accurately, why can’t I feel anything? I want to feel, I want to be human.

What’s staring back at me in the mirror is not human.

I gasped as I heard it shatter, the mirror once whole was now a cluster of bloodstained fragments scattered all over the floor.

A crimson liquid dripped from my knuckles though I felt almost numb..? They didn’t feel like my knuckles, nothing feels right, it’ll never be right.

Or am I simply just unfixable?

I bend down and stare at the fragments of glass scattered all over the floor, almost admiring them. there’s nothing to be heard in the stagnant silence of my room so I’m simply left to listen to my own thoughts.

Without thinking, I grab a shard of glass, my breath shakes as the fragment skims my fingers.

I clench my jaw as I bring the shard to my wrist, I don’t feel like I’m in control of my body. I feel as if somethings inside me, something cruel, Something with no remorse.

I press down on my wrist, shuddering as it pierces my skin. I slide it across my flesh once, twice, three times, until I eventually lose count and decide to focus on the blood oozing out of my mutilated flesh. I bite my lip as I try to go even deeper, a bigger distraction is what I need, I continue to tell myself.

I press down on my skin, wincing as I slide the glass across my cold flesh. The blood didn’t ooze out this time, no, instead it gushed out. I coldly stare at the gaping wound on my flesh, unable to feel it, I can’t bring myself to feel anything. I’m just cold, too cold for my own comfort.

I’ve let myself down.

Why can’t I come to terms that there is something irreversibly wrong with me? There is no getting better, this is how it’ll always be. Somehow, I manage to do this to myself every time I think I’ve finally improved.

I turn my gaze to the pool of blood underneath my wrist and merely shiver.

Is this where it ends for me?

How foolish.

I wake up from my dream, quite a horrid one at that.

I am me again.

my body has been bestowed upon me, perhaps mutilating the fragile skin on my flesh did indeed prove to be a success.

I stare down at my wrist, nothing but a few moles and freckles. Fortunately, no split open flesh on this skin of mine and the purity it has been gifted.

I get out of bed, I feel alive, almost ineffable and my soul isn’t rotten nor corrupted.

I decide to satisfy the grumbling in my stomach and head to the kitchen.

I see my father.

I yearn for his love.

I yearn for anyone’s love.

On that note, I don’t fear that my future lover will have my father’s smile, but I am terrified that if I were to crack open his chest, I’d find my father’s heart inside, beating, cold, and full of nothing. I see myself in his eyes, in his hands, and in his silence. I wonder if I’ve already inherited his sins without even knowing it.

The debt he has left this world will be thrown upon my soul and weighed against it.

His sins will determine the drastic fate this melancholy world has prepared for me.

I used to think that the absence of his affection would set me free, but instead, it binds me in chains I can’t escape. The harder I fight against becoming him, the more I feel his reflection creep into my skin and seep into my bones. I see his face when I look at myself in the mirror, and in those moments I want nothing more than to set my self aflame. I hope it’ll make the parts of him etched deep inside my soul cease to exist, In a way that causes an inexpressible pain deep inside his corrupted soul.

I am not him, I am good, pure.

I find myself in the bathroom, my appetite has been satisfied, I’m not sure how or when.

I stare in the mirror, once again.

This time, I’m not my dad nor am I myself.

I’m an insect.