you were bad, you were good, you promise you're getting better.
but you're not.
you love to hurt yourself in any way you can. you love causing your own destruction. killing yourself slowly, depriving yourself of basic needs. anything you could get.
you promise everything is fine.
you say this aloud while only being able to think that you haven't eaten for two days and this is the proudest you've been in yourself for a long time. the empty feeling has become a comfort to you.
you promise you're taking care of yourself.
but you know you've been awake for 37 hours straight and your head is throbbing and you feel as close to being happy as you have in years. somehow you always feel so happy on the days you haven't slept. you look at your hands and wonder if your imagining it or if there is something off with your skin. you're emotional and manic but god if you don't love it.
you promise you are trying.
but you still manage to scratch at your skin until you bleed. you stare at the scars and you feel justified and dignified and happy. those scars prove that something happened, that your struggle is taking place and you love them for that because you need a sign that the war you fight daily in your head is real.
you promise and you lie and you keep things to yourself.
you occasionally break and let someone see the hurt, but it doesn't matter because no one cares enough about you to do anything. your cries for help may just be barely whispers, but they are still there, just no one cares to listen. you watch everyone you know tell lies and half-truths so you don't feel guilty.
you feel nothing at all as you continue breaking promise after promise.
