TW sh, ed

I began by losing interest in the things

that used to bring me joy,

the people who used to light up my world now

just reminded me how dark it is.

I slowly lost all hope that I have for myself,

and the scary thoughts crept into my head.

What would it be like if I wasn’t here anymore?

I ask myself every night while I

slice open my skin,

hoping the external pain takes away from all

the pain I feel inside.

The scars up and down my legs

were a reminder of the pain that I feel,

of the pain that I deserve.

My illness is slowly killing me from the inside out

with every meal I skip,

every cut I make,

every thought that makes me wonder

what the point of living is anymore.

I’m forgetting how to sleep,

forgetting how to breathe,

forgetting everything I learned when I was in the

state of mind that they call recovery.

Haunted dreams plague my nights

when I finally exhaust myself enough

and remember to take my pills,

ruining the sleep that I worked so hard to earn.

Now I’m constantly ruminating over my past mistakes,

over the people I feel I’ve disappointed.

I stuff my feelings into a little ball and stuff it deep

inside my heart, hoping to forget them

but with every day I let them sit they

grow,

they multiply,

transforming my mind into a battlefield

where all my soldiers are weak from disease

the disease that is slowly taking my life away from me.

The life I’m living isn’t a life worth living.

But it’s not that I truly want to die,

I just don’t want to live.

I don’t want to be forever trapped

in this world of gray.

But the second I begin to feel better

I begin to miss my sickness.

Because who the hell am I if I’m not sick anymore?