oh how I am hypocritical.
each and every day I tell you,
you are so beautiful.
thin and lean,
perfect posture,
perfect girl.
there is no need,
my darling,
to hurt yourself.
do not cry,
do not paint your wrists red,
or skip a meal or two.
no.
I tell you your depression
does not define you,
you are so much more than that,
my darling,
you are hurting me as well.
yet I tell you these things
only before entering my room.
laying on my bed of lies
just awaiting the reveal
of the secrets I keep.
each time you put down the blade
another scar placed upon my body.
each bite taken,
another meal skipped.
I do not know why I tell you,
that it is possible to get better,
that I will help you,
that everything will be okay,
when I cannot say those words
in front of my own mirror.
c.d.
YOU ARE READING
1:46 a.m.
PoesíaA collection of poems, most written at extremely late, or should I say extremely early, times of the day, when my mind can truly bleed its thoughts onto paper.
