What you think is confusion and mistakes,
You have no idea,
You see the only mistake I have,
Is not saying this sooner,
You see I smile on the outside,
I put on that facade,
But behind closed doors,
It's a different story,
It's torn away,
The real me is revealed,
The me that cries at the thought of getting undressed,
The me that panics at the thought of having a shower,
The me that wears a shirt one day and can't the next,
All because
The material fits too tight,
The material itches,
The material sticks to my skin,
My skin itches,
It feels so wrong,
It's doesn't fit right.
But then I have to leave,
I look in the mirror and what do I see?
Discomfort, pain, tiredness?
All those things and more.
You see you have no idea how this effects me.
This feeling of wanting to rip my own skin off.
This feeling of wanting to drag a knife across my chest.
Cut away the feeling of discomfort and bleed out the rest.
There is no relief.
That's every day twenty four seven.
There is no escape from this.
And then what do people do?
They say I'm wrong,
That we're all wrong.
As if I'd go through this if it was made up.
As if I'd risk everything for some extra attention.
They have no idea.
And I'm glad they don't.
Because I wouldn't wish this feeling upon anyone.
