T/W: implications of self-harm, anxiety
dear voice inside my head,
I am sorry
though I despise you for your scathing remarks
and brutally honest observations
I never gave you the credit you deserved
for the fourteen torturous years you have perched
upon my shoulder
I never paid you the respect you so bluntly demanded
but I will now
you were right
you have never lied to me
all the words you whispered in my ear
waiting for them to make me cry
all the wretched thoughts you planted
in the part of my mind I thought I had hidden from you
were true
they grew into a sickening vine
that strangled me and burst from my mouth
they choked me and kept my words
locked them up
kept them hidden.
they were true and real and overwhelmingly so
you were (are) right
my thighs touch
my hair is frizzy
my skin is not porcelain
my eyes are not framed by long inviting lashes
my hands are clumsy and cumbersome
my wrists are scarred and shaking
my lips are not cherry sweet, parting with opiate grace, spilling with a beautiful voice, speaking stories that are full of wildflowers and wonder
you tell the truth
and that is the cruellest thing you could ever do
*******
a/n: please note that this does NOT apply to me anymore!! of course i'm still not entirely pleased with my body/limitations/etc, but i was really in a very very not nice place when i wrote this and i promise i'm much much better off now so please do not worry!!!
YOU ARE READING
pretentious drivel // short stories, poems, and the usual c**p
Randoma collection of short stories, poems, and general sh*te. don't have high expectations. please note some of these are old as h*ck and don't apply to me any more, i might just think they're good. // cover art by pascal campion //
