Inside My Mind

I'm done with everything

I feel hot.

It's not right. I shouldn't be hot. I should be able to breathe. But I can't. I won't. No one can see. I've been caught before and it never ends well. People have seen.

But maybe I want them to see. Maybe I need them to see. To see I'm not okay. To see I'm struggling. To see I'm having a hard time.

I can't breathe, but they can't see. I won't let them. I can't let them. So I wear long sleeves. I wear blankets. I say the common, "I'm fine" and "it's just the cat". I'm glad I have a cat. It makes the lie more believable.

I still feel hot.

I shouldn't feel hot. I should be able to wear short sleeves and shorts, but I can't. I won't. I don't want to go through it all again. It's not fair.

Yet, it is.

I did this to myself. I caused this. It's only fair to take blame. But is the blame really mine? It's my thoughts that cause it. Every night I do it and it's my thoughts that make me believe I deserve it.

Maybe I do deserve it. Maybe I do deserve to die. Maybe I deserve to have my arms so scarred and sore that I can't sleep at night.

All this is supposedly is a bunch of writing. Creative writing, to be exact. All I am is a toy to play with. A thing to use. That's all I've ever been. That's okay though. I'm used to it. I just damage myself more trying to fit into society's small and complex mold. What's the point in being alive if all it does is cause me pain?

I don't want others to go through what I did, so I damage myself more to help them. I can't breathe, but maybe I don't want to breathe. I feel so tired because under the smoldering  summer sun, my energy is drained.

I don't eat, when I do though, I punish myself. I'm not worthy of food. I destroy myself trying to be better. I'm just a fuck up going nowhere. Why would anyone care?

Cut after cut after cut after cut, until I die.

~M. A.