The Battle of the Mists

Stop talking, you sound stupid.
Don't walk like that, you look weird.
There were days I would wish that I was that pretty blonde girl whose hair bounced and flowed like a beautiful wave. Who could smile without faltering.
Don't smile so hard you look crazy.
Don't smile, you're face looks even more chubby.
My brain was like a dying rose. Full of ideas, full of aspiration, yet full of a foreign darkening mist. It would expand during the nights when all I had was myself, my thoughts and the darkness.
You're the reason that he died. You should have texted him, called him. It would have woken him up, then he would have woken his brother up. The car wouldn't have flipped. He would still be here, Kalie would be happy, his mom wouldn't be in pain. It's your fault. Horrible friend.
In the mornings when the sun would shine through the dusty blinds on my window, it often reminded me of a jail cell. The sunlight was my savior, my freedom, but the darkness held me inside. The sunlight peaked through the small openings of the blinds as if they where the bars of cell window.
Just another prisoner of the millennial generation.
The way you think is selfish. You and your kind. Mom agrees, she said so herself, "Suicidal thoughts are a sign of selfishness."
On mainly Wednesdays I'd think back to when my food intake consisted of numbers rather than actual food. And when the numbers where finally down in my stomach it was "I have to go to the bathroom".
You should have stuck with it.
I looked dead.
You looked skinny.
I felt sick.
You're still a cow.
On weekends the dark mist would begin to feast. My heart would ache in my loneliness.
How could I tell my mother? The one who gave up college and worked two jobs to support us, that I've been selfish all along.
So no, I told a word to no one. I couldn't.
It was a Tuesday, or a Thursday. The day began with a 'T', the night before I had opened my blinds to watch a spider dangle from its glistening web, and that morning the sun came in like a hero summoned by the forces of all that is good in the world.
The dark mist still spoke to me, and though I still listened the light guided my body.
It was like stepping on a dream-cloud.
That morning, it was five or six o'clock, I ran. The morning dew tickled my feet and the morning mist began a battle with the dark mist. Swords were drawn, bullets were shot, and by the end, tears created two streams on my cheeks, but all in all the morning mist had won.
I realized that I didn't want to give up that smell of damp leaves. Or the white cotton wisps of clouds in the Atlantic blue sky. I wanted to stay. I wanted to feel.