vent vent vent. something i wrote about myself. not entirely sure WHAT it is. (i will learn to capitalize my summaries eventually)
You're doing that thing again, the thing where you try to stitch yourself together after ripping yourself to pieces. It's less like fixing something that's broken and more like making it look better for a little while. The scars on your limbs, the ones you're pretty sure don't truly exist, will never heal. You'd like nothing more than to rip your skin open and show the world: you are awful, you are hideous, you have no right to exist. Some say you do, but clearly they don't know you.
It is a shock to find that people think you might have a hint of beauty, some semblance of talent. The fact that anyone bothers to associate with you? A miracle. A miracle that people look past your every terrible quality and find the good in you. (You do not believe there is any good in you.)
Every little word attacks your nerves; the good, the bad, the ambiguous. All it does is burn. You can't distinguish compliments and insults, and the things that should be nothing to you can pester you for hours. Finding yourself constantly trapped on an endless trainwreck of thoughts is not so much tiring as it is discouraging. You can never seem to get out.
You take the time to carefully press your teeth against your arm. Gentle, gentle, before slowly tightening the grip between your teeth until the pain is too much and the bite marks imbed themselves into your skin. If only you could tear it off.
You create so many things. Trying to be cutesy or deep but everyone can see through the thin veil of your art. The truth of the matter is this: you will never be what you want to be. You wish you could be proud of your accomplishments, but honestly the only thing you're vaguely proud of anymore is that you haven't cut yourself yet. The very thought makes you feel sick, which makes you more anxious still.
Just what the hell do you think you are, trying to live and trying to be proud? You don't even know what you are, by any stretch of the imagination. Just a shithead kid trying to get by. Even when you're happy, near everything hurts you. Sometimes you're convinced it isn't worth the fight.
You stretch your wings and fly, to your beginning and your end.