My inspiration...

I am not myself

I am not myself.
You should be afraid of loosing me because I'm afraid of loosing to myself.
Everyday I have less control over my actions,
Will tomorrow be the end?
Will tomorrow be the last cut I make?
Will it be the next day?
Or the next?
I don't know.
The old Peyton is dead and I don't know if she can be revived.
The new Peyton has taken over and she doesn't care.
She's morbid,
Poisoned
And gruesome.
She doesn't find the light in anything.
She doesn't want to die,
She wants to live
And that's what many people don't understand.
She wants to live,
But she just wants the pain to end.
She doesn't make eye contact in fear that people will see the pain and poison.
She fakes smiles and pretends to be happy,
But in realty, she's never been happy.
She cry's over things that make her happy in fear that she'll loose them.
And she cry's over things that make her sad in fear they will never go away.
Everything scares her,
She lives every moment in fear.
Every little thing affects her,
She is so fragile.
Everything breaks her heart,
But nothing can mend it.
She can barely get herself out of bed in the morning because she barely sleeps.
She wakes up at ungodly hours for no reason.
She doesn't want to get up because she much rather die than have to live another day faking it.
She knows she has people that love her and she loves them,
But their love for her no longer has an affect.
It doesn't provide her hope, just fear.
How can she tell someone she loves that she's hurting?
How can she tell someone she loves that she wishes she was dead?
They won't understand.
That's the problem.
No one will understand.
They're her feelings, not anyone else's.
They won't understand and that's why she doesn't tell.
She wants someone to understand so they can fix her,
But if she tells the people she loves, they will just ask questions and judge her.
They will ask her why?
They will ask her to stop.
They will ask her what's so bad?
But honestly,
She doesn't even know anymore.
She doesn't know why.
She doesn't know how to stop.
She doesn't know.
She wants help,
She knows she's not who she used to be.
But she can't bring herself to ask for help.
She doesn't like to cause problems,
She doesn't like to cause a scene,
She doesn't like to be the center of attention,
And she doesn't like to make people worry.
Some days she claims she'll be alright,
She'll get better.
But if she goes any longer without help....
She'll be dead,
by her own hand.
Everyday she sees blood,
Everyday she thinks of ways to end her life.
She knows she shouldn't,
But she can't help it.
Everything turns to a way she could kill herself.
Every sound, every object, every feeling she gets is a potential way to die.
Cheering herself up could turn into a blood bath.
She calls herself crazy because she can no longer control her thoughts or feelings or barely even her actions.
She feels like she belongs in a mental facility, an insane asylum, an institution.
She's one penny short of becoming the next Harley Quinn.
The person they thought would be the most sane,
Turns out to be the most crazy.
She needs help,
But no one will get it for her,
Not even herself.
Because there couldn't possibly be anything wrong with her.