Move Me

Dear Sadly.

Dear Sadly,

I know how you feel.

Not you, necessarily, but those fickle emotions playing repeatedly in your head.

Pain.

That gnawing numbness eating at your flesh that eats, and eats, and eats away every ounce of happiness left swirling scarcely inside your veins.

God, and those demons in your head that will just never go away.

Die. Die. Die.

You're drowning in self-loathing and it hurts so fucking much, those demons have finally managed to trick you into believing that a simple laceration of a blade will make you feel better.

It won't.

It fucking won't, okay?

It might make you feel good at that precise moment in time, but you're lying.

Tell me you're lying.

You have got to be.

How is that swift cut of a blade against the soft skin in your arm supposed to make you feel any better? Does it hurt enough to make you feel numb, does those voices in your head halt at the blade's very alter?

Tell me, please.

Please, I want to understand.

I won't call you pathetic, I know what that feels like.

Petty. Bitchy. Whiney.

Petty. Good God, no other word could make my blood boil as much as that one does and it pisses me the fuck off.
My dad called me that. 'Calls' me that, if we're being literal. He's still my father, regardless if I like him/it or not.

He's a dick, trust me. You may not know him, or may never get to meet him but if you did you'd be able to understand what he's going through as well, I think.

Depression.

He's sad, just like you. Just like me. And I have done nothing but annoy the piss out of him and make him regret not killing himself before he met my mother even more.

I bet he regrets having me, at least.

But maybe him being an asshole to me is actually him trying to express his feelings.

Maybe that's why people call you a bitch during the day as well?

Because you don't know any other way to express your feelings.

Trust me, I get called a dumb bitch, an asshole, a smart ass, and a dickhead on the daily but, to be honest, it doesn't hurt me as much as it should.

I want people to think I'm tough.

Know I'm tough, because I am.

I'm strong even if I can't see it for myself because why else have I still allowed myself to breath this long if I wasn't?

What most people don't know, however, is that I am kind.

I am kind.

You are kind.

You're miserable and you are losing every part of yourself that you used to love but you're still you regardless if you like it or not.

You're still allowing yourself to live because you know you're supposed to.

You were born to breathe, your whole existence is beautiful even if you think those gigantic splotches of acne on your face aren't.

You're beautiful.