If I'm being honest,
It isn't the same anymore.
Any of this.
If I'm being honest,
I miss the way that cool metal tears at my skin,
So last night I brought that cool metal close to my breast,
And sliced it like scissors on wrapping paper.
And if I'm being honest about that?
I loved every second of it.
I loved every drop of blood,
Every piece of the pain.
It felt like the old days,
when I was constantly dropping weight,
When I wasn't eating,
When I was crying at night,
Without ever feeling anything at all-
And if I'm being honest,
I miss that too.
Honestly, my pain is where I drew my inspiration,
So if my poems suck now it's because my pain hasn't taken over.
But sometimes I regret the 'good' in my life.
I'm so over the 'body positivity' and the 'self love'.
I'm so over all this fake positivity that isn't who I am.
I'm so over wanting everything to be perfect and peachy,
Because if I'm being honest, it isn't.
Life is hell,
We're all living it.
I'm selfish at heart, just like the rest of you are,
And maybe I only care about myself, and maybe that's okay.
I'm tired of living and breathing my breath for everyone else,
I'm tired of trying to carry your weight on my fragile shoulders,
And most of all I'm tired to tearing myself apart to make you happy,
But...
that's just if I'm being honest.
