Leave The Door Open Pt. 2

A Poem by Lola

No ones the truth, no one understands, all i have myself. And my demons.

Life is a matter of struggle of living for the sole purpose of death, to me.

Waking up thinking of what other way of self-infliction that may empower me.

No one really knows how it is. How scary it is. To look at myself.

I don't want to undress, let alone raise my sleeves up.

The scars, the fat, the words, the thoughts, the demons.

I don't want to look at myself in an upright mirror. I am a monster.

I refuse to be an attention wh*re of my own torment.

How is it that i don't fear the storm when i am a storm myself?

How hypocritical, i fear me. What i'm capable of.

Or maybe i am an attention wh*re? Maybe I am the reason this happened to me.

Maybe i deserved it. Deserved to be fucked up, Giving them reasons to f**k me up harder.

As if i didn't have any.

Reasons to grope me and drag me as i scream for help, but it is not there.

Help is never, truly there.

My purity, my dignity, my sanity, withered with my screams.

That is why I keep silent, no one is truly there, but me.

I'm just another low teenager, wanting attention and acting all messed to do so.

I am a floating presence of nonexistence.

I am no longer sacred.

God knows that.

He isn't giving me the chance to die, as if i'm meant to be alive. Me? Life? But for what? I'm living in hell. And i'd rather be in the real deal than wait for its arrival. Why can't my time be now? It has to be. I can't live like this. This is not a life. What do i have to live for? Lone in my thoughts, and in my spirit.

No one wants me.

No one knows me.

No one understands.

No one will.

No one understands the way i have insomnia attacks every f*cking night. Waking up at 4 am, with the crave of metallic blades and fresh blood dancing on my skin. Hungry as hell, but puking any leftover dignity still left in me. How I ear pills, but swallow dozens anyway. After all, what are risks without a thrill?

Hating myself.

Over, and over,

and over.

Because no one notices.

"God! Why are you so depressed?"

"Why are you so pale?"

"You look anorexic go eat something!"

"Why don't you talk more often?"

The words that make me insane, are the ones used against me.

The ones that try to advise me, are the ones that make me go further.

I'd talk more often if you'd listen, if you'd hear, if you'd give me a chance to speak.

But no, poor little skinny girl with the thigh gap, collar bones, and flawless skin has no problems.

How can someone so perfect have problems?

Welcome to my perfect life.

Bruised, empty, and caged.

I leave the bathroom door open, as my burned face and scorched gums and insides enthrall me with pain. The pain, I like it.

My thighs and wrists cut and bloody and the sharpest piece of glass with the word WORTHLESS scribbled in lipstick upon it, is held tight between my trembling bony fingers.

Yesterday's non existent dinner forced out in the toilet and pills of white and blue shoved down to blur my empty stomach away.

I leave the door open.

There was never really privacy in this house, kept the doors open to make sure nothing happens to me.

Because they knew i was out of it.

Well guess what? Doors cannot keep me safe from myself. Nothing can.

I leave the door open, so my mother can see.

What she has done.

What I have become.

Her little girl that shines so beautifully when the sun reflects off her face, doesn't need a sun no more.

Shriveled on the bathroom floor.