compulsive thoughts

trigger warning: lots of self-harm mentions, compulsive thoughts, perfectionism/insecurity, mention of suicidal thoughts, general weight-related issues

nothing you say really sinks into me. and by that i mean you could collapse in front of me to stop and my fingers would still be scratching. or pinching. or picking. or picking again. picking like there’s something at the bottom. picking, because i once imagined ripping off my skin and then waiting for it to regrow and i somehow thought that when it did, everything would be simple, and perfect, and finished, and beautiful. and i know that’s fucked up, but it still feels right somehow. like if i just keep taking little parts of me off me no one will notice me melting, or disappearing, or defying my body. and when i was little, i used to think about starving myself so time would stop changing. and i don’t want to think about being a little kid because it makes me skin crawl, but i’m going to anyway. i’m going to say that every depressing poem i write stitches me back together in a little way. and i’m tired, and that makes fighting harder, except why fight? because it doesn’t really hurt me, right? because in the moment i don’t even care about myself let alone the people around me. and sometimes, i wonder. if i don’t really care about you at all because i could easily leave you destroyed by the grief of me being gone does that make me selfish? because i know there are people who would call it selfish, but i’m not going to believe that. because i hurt enough as is. and i’m trying to lift myself up day after day after day. i’m fighting, and i’m trying to work through this, and i’m getting somewhere, but it’s also driving me closer and closer to the edge or actually i’m not sure where i’m going but i do know there’s a lot of skidding. and on the worst nights my feelings no longer make sense to me, and i’m scared of everything leaving so deeply. i think it’s destroying me. i think i’m mining myself searching for gold only i can’t find any and i don’t know if these words mean anything and it doesn’t really bug me because isn’t it my body to destroy and i can’t be hurt by the assumptions i can hear screaming on their blank faces and isn’t it my brain to leave barren and empty. and aren’t plenty of people worse anyway? i scroll through social media again, and again, and again, until the stormy waters of my brain have collapsed and quietly, i’m empty again.

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