I remember every night when I thought to myself "I'm not good enough." I remember every time I told my mom I'm beautiful and I love myself in every way. I remember that every time I tell my mom those things that each time I was lying. I am scared, insecure, ugly, fat, not good enough, basic, fake, in humane, and not okay. I try to befriend insecure people because I don't want them to go through what I do. I lie to them though, I tell them I'm not afraid and I'm fine, but I'm not. I never have been and honestly I don't think I ever will be. I remember the day I met Loren she was insecure and didn't really like herself. Day by day I see her growing more confident in herself. I truly every her, when I look at her I always think to myself "she is an angle sent down from heaven, she if the definition of perfect in this imperfect world and I'll never be like her." There's days where I felt pretty and those are the days I don't remember...
... I don't remember the days I felt pretty, those are the days that are long gone. I don't know when they left, but one day I woke up and I didn't feel it anymore. I don't remember the days that my mom asked me if I was okay, I don't remember the days she saw the begging look in my eye screaming for her to ask me again. Even is she did I would just say I'm fine and once again put on my mask with a painted smile from ear to ear. The sad thing is that I have started to realize that a fake smile is easy to put on if you never really took it off. I don't remember the last time someone called me beautiful, nice, or pretty. I don't remember how long it's been since I have eaten. I never know anymore, I'm sick and almost impossible to cure. I don't remember the last time I thought about the day when I realized hope is just another 4 letter word. The antidote is in my hands but I need to work my brain to find out how exactly before I use it. I can't do it alone anymore envy
PLEASE REMEMBER ♥️
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Pouring My Heart Out
Short StoryPouring my heart out is a everyday update, I pour my heart out into the pages and watch as the paper soaks up the blood, it turns to words and soon it's a type of poem... each day will be something different, each day somehow makes me cry when writi...