My door

I don’t know why it’s the back of my close door that’s my spot.

But it makes sense.

I lean against it sitting on the floor, excepting defeat.

Back pressed against it, so I have a few extra seconds to prepare if someone comes to check on me.

They won’t.

But I prepare anyhow.

Sitting down because I have no energy left to keep my legs from giving out soon.

I sit there and look at most of my belongings, trying to get just one momento to catch my eye and steer me elsewhere.

It won’t.

Point is, I can see why it’s the back of my closed door.

My childhood door was pink and had pictures from magazines cut out all over it.

I don’t even like pink so I don’t know why I chose it, but I don’t know why am sitting here, tear soaked, ready to make myself pay in blood.

My grown-up door is always plain.

Maybe wood are painted white.

There is always something that sane me put there to distract crazy me from the thing I’m about to do.

This time it’s a painting from an important friend.

Someone who I most likely disappointed somehow.

I always disappoint.

And that’s the thought that goes through my head as I push the blade down on my skin.

Drawing blood.

“Always disappoint. Always disappoint. Always disappoint. Always. Always. Always.”

The door is always the spot where I cut myself because I hate myself.

Always will be.

Silent Ugly Crying

I’m a pro at silent crying.

Sitting in traffic, in the bathroom stall at work or in target, in bed next to someone, collapsed in the shower, or at the gym.

I cried during my yoga class last night.

Lights were off and I ugly cried quietly on my mat.

I also cried yesterday at work just sitting at my desk and not caring who saw me.

I’m trying to stay alive over here. The least of my problems is who may see my mascara smearing.

I just get so fucking angry at my mind and my body and my whole freaking self. Fuck it all.

This is endless. Relentless.

It doesn’t matter what anyone says. They can tell me I’m like Mother Teresa and I will still hate myself and cry myself to sleep.

I can’t cry at “normal” times.

I don’t feel emotions like “normal” people do.

Normal people don’t want to destroy their bodies to match the ugliness that is inside.

People keep asking me if i’m cold. But I’m just making my sweater as tight as i can so maybe I won't explode.