sorry.

Disappointment.

I cry out my frustration; trying not to break the mirror in front of me.

Liar.

I panic at night, and know I don’t deserve trust anymore.

Terrible influence.

I compartmentalize my personality, so I can’t ruin anyone else.

Bad, bad, bad.

I throw up, unable to take it anymore. The feeling washes down the toilet, and I know it’ll be back soon.

The feeling of hatred. I hate her. The girl I am.

No one believes I’m going to try to change. Or, how much I cry…hot, messy tears about how I’ve screwed up.

Does life ever get better? Do people understand mistakes? Do you see I’m struggling to get by?

Guilt gnaws at my bones.

And, all I can say is I’m trying, and that I’m sorry for the girl I’ve become.

So, so sorry.

 

 

 

 

 

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self-love.

maybe,

I wasn’t beautiful in the sense of unblemished skin, or how my outfits weren’t put together; how I snorted when I laughed, or how I clumsily walked through life.

but,

I collected my tears in jars, to be remembered but not dwelled on. I let the scars heal, and watch the new skin cover my self hatred. I opened the windows of my heart, and let joy seep through.

and,

I’m slowly learning that beauty is found in the excitement in my eyes when I’m about to climb a roof. In the tips of my hair dyed teal, because I wanted it. In the slight tremble in my hands when I’m nervous, and the bruises on my knees from unknown adventures. In my voice when I’m talking to someone I love.

That was beauty. I had looked at self-love all wrong all these years.

It wasn’t how my collar bones showed, or how I painted my nails.

It was the inner beauty, that I found and could be proud of.

 

about me.

dear someone,

i got rid of my about page, so i thought i might as well.

(how to even start…?)

i love winona ryder, she is everything i want to be. (plus, i want to date christian slater (from heathers) good lord, the leather trench coat and gold hoop were attractive.)

i’m kind of a poet, kind of not. i used to write better, now i use it as a source of comfort, and my words paint a myriad of pain. i don’t think self-hate and trauma is poetry.

i love studying the human mind, but i hate psychologists (how ironic…)

i have friends, but for the most part my best friend is myself. i keep my thoughts to myself. i talk to myself.

i hide under blankets of self depreciatory humor and anxiety.

boys are overrated. not that i dislike them, but i don’t enjoy them either.

girls are dramatic. i’m not into gossip and shopping.

i prefer coffee friends. the ones you call at three a.m., talk about the world with, who you can tell all your thoughts to, because they understand. (granted, i only have three of these.)

only seventeen, and i hate life. no, correction, i don’t know how to love life anymore. i feel like the main character in, this is side of paradise by f. scott fitzgerald. tired of human tendencies to sin and then to hide under layers of frivolous spending and partying. aren’t we all a victim of that, though?

speaking of books, i love them. i read mostly classics. they seem to have more depth. new books don’t have the same haunting effect on my soul (excluding a few…) i also enjoy reading history textbooks, biographies, and philosophies.

i believe knowledge is one of the most vital part of becoming the best person you can be. i strive to always learn and be open-minded.

love,

liv