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january 27th, 2015 - 4:30pm

i don’t know what to write anymore, because i’m tired of writing about sadness and pain. i’m tired of writing one poem or piece of prose after another simply to sort out my sadness and try to find peace.

i’m so tired of constant thoughts of suicide, the constant urge to take a razor blade to the soft skin on my arms and leave a scar that will tell the story of my pain.

i’m tired of trying to put my latest mental state into words when the most frequent thought i have is i’d kill for a bottle of vodka. vodka, cigarettes, razor blades… anything to numb the pain, if only just for a minute.

i’m sick of always wanting to go hungry so that i can watch the weight drop from my body. fall in love with the way my hipbones and ribs stick out and for once, have the tiniest bit of control over something because my life is crashing down around me and i’m tearing apart at the seams.

i’m killing myself slowly in the vain hope that maybe, just maybe, i’ll be able to kill the monster inside.

perhaps as the blood flows down my arms, the darkness will go with it. or maybe if i stop eating again and watch my weight go from healthy to malnourished, the monster will starve with me. maybe poisoning my liver and lungs with alcohol and cigarette smoke will stop the monster from breathing, cause it to curl up and die in misery.

because this monster, this thing, it’s killing me from the inside out. and there is nothing more terrifying than knowing that i can’t tame it or make friends with it or get rid of it entirely. there is nothing more terrifying that being your own worst enemy.

it’s hard to keep surviving when your greatest danger, the monster lurking deep inside… is yourself.

Description
january 27th, 2015 - 4:30pm

i don’t know what to write anymore, because i’m tired of writing about sadness and pain. i’m tired of writing one poem or piece of prose after another simply to sort out my sadness and try to find peace.

i’m so tired of constant thoughts of suicide, the constant urge to take a razor blade to the soft skin on my arms and leave a scar that will tell the story of my pain.

i’m tired of trying to put my latest mental state into words when the most frequent thought i have is i’d kill for a bottle of vodka. vodka, cigarettes, razor blades… anything to numb the pain, if only just for a minute.

i’m sick of always wanting to go hungry so that i can watch the weight drop from my body. fall in love with the way my hipbones and ribs stick out and for once, have the tiniest bit of control over something because my life is crashing down around me and i’m tearing apart at the seams.

i’m killing myself slowly in the vain hope that maybe, just maybe, i’ll be able to kill the monster inside.

perhaps as the blood flows down my arms, the darkness will go with it. or maybe if i stop eating again and watch my weight go from healthy to malnourished, the monster will starve with me. maybe poisoning my liver and lungs with alcohol and cigarette smoke will stop the monster from breathing, cause it to curl up and die in misery.

because this monster, this thing, it’s killing me from the inside out. and there is nothing more terrifying than knowing that i can’t tame it or make friends with it or get rid of it entirely. there is nothing more terrifying that being your own worst enemy.

it’s hard to keep surviving when your greatest danger, the monster lurking deep inside… is yourself.