im fond of my closet, its dark quite corners. no one visits me there, a sweater is always in reach to cover the small crescent shaped puncture and bruises left on my arms and legs. writing isn't a fun experience anymore, i've ruined it for myself and only ever reserve the opportunity for when my arms become numb from my nails digging into them to distract myself from my thoughts and i completely give in. it's a temporary pain that fails to complete it's purpose as the nearest notepad turns into a novel filled with all the reasons i absolutely loath myself. i try not to cry a lot but as the pages fill up with tear stains and tilted letters written sloppily in the corner of my closet i can't help myself. there are no good feelings when i write, no sense of catharsis when i'm finished. all that's left is apathy and illegible passages that no one else will lay their eyes upon.
