I'm scared that you'll get tired of me.
What if one day you wake up and can't remember why I was so special to you at the beginning?
Something in the back of my mind is telling me that you don't love me.
There's an increasing emptiness in your voice when you say those three words, or am I imagining it?
Is this my paranoia whispering into my ear when I'm on the edge of consciousness?
What are you thinking?
Why don't I already know?
I'm afraid of these answers.
I'm terrified that it's all true; that I've lost whatever it is that made you think I was worth it.
I don't want to lose you but I can't help but think that's what's happening here.

I read all of your comments and I appreciate all of you.
I think there is something a lot of you don't see though.
I am not actually trying to get better nor was that ever my intention.
I do not have any plans of sticking around for much longer.
I do not love myself.
I don;t know if I ever really knew how to.
I can't even fathom having a future.
I don't see myself going to art school or accomplishing any of the things I once hoped to.
I don't think I can handle any of this much longer.
I'm so sorry.

Leave me at the altar

I'm getting to the point where I think about suicide even if I'm not feeling upset.
I was with my family over thanksgiving and it was probably one of the hardest moments of my life.
Every time I would get a hug or a glance my way I would wonder how that person would react if I commit suicide.
My uncle killed himself when I was three weeks old.
I never knew him.
The only thing I can think of when I hear his name is how it must have felt to pull that trigger.
My six year old cousin kept telling me how much she loved me and how I was her favorite cousin ever.
I can't deal with that.
I couldn't take any of it.
So every chance I got I would refill my wine glass.
On my way to my cousins house I purged in a gas station restroom.
People heard me.
They talked louder so they could hear each other over the sound of me choking on my fingers.
I haven't cut in about three weeks.
I plan on cutting my upper arms tonight.
I can't help but wonder if I should try and get help before its too late.
There won't be another hospital trip because the next time I attempt I have no doubt that I will not survive.
There is something wonderfully comforting about that.

Tired

Its that time of year when I can't see the fucking point anymore.
Everything is just so exhausting.
I keep trying for the people I love but guilt can only go so far.

I don't even care anymore.
If I get desperate enough I'll cut myself in a crowded room.

Purging in public doesn't even phase me.

I stopped looking for reasons to stay a long time ago.
All I want to do is sleep.

I'm so done with being stuck in a life I'm not living.
I'm such a coward but I'm too tired to really give a fuck.

Just leave me your stardust to remember you by

Sadness is worse than any infectious disease in existence.
It kills all parts of you.
Your mind, your body, everything you wanted to be, and everything you were ceases to matter when depression seeps into your bones and fills the cracks of your universe.
Your universe is reduced to crumbs; ashes of something once incredibly beautiful.
Each strand of your personality rots down to thin tangled threads that can't hold you up anymore.
Everything you thought you knew and loved doesn't make sense to you now.
You are not a person.
You are not a human being.
You have no face.
You have no body.
You are yellow ivory dust.
A crumbled statue that used to stand tall.
You are nothing to anyone you ever thought you meant something to.
You are a whisper of a memory and that will never be good enough to hold their attention.
What are you if nothing matters?
Who are you if you have no features?
How are we to distinguish you from the rest of the peeling soiled wall paper?
How do I remember being someone who doesn't exist?
How do I even pretend to be a hollowed out shell of her when I'm not even that anymore?
I can't go back.
I can't go forward.
I can only rot where my feet meet the pavement.

My mom always tells me to write things down when I'm upset.
I always tell her I will.
I don't have the heart to tell her writing makes it worse.
Talking makes it worse.
I blog about my feelings and my fucked up thoughts all the time but it never does my mental state any good.
I never feel better about myself.
If anything I hate myself more.
It used to be only physical; I only hated the person in the mirror.
Now I hate myself as a person too.
"If you don't like it; change it"
I tried.
I have tried and tried to change the things I do so maybe I can be okay with myself but I can't.
I try to change my appearance and my style and my art and my personality.
I have tried to be a better daughter/friend/sister/cousin/girlfriend and I just hate myself more.
I don't even have any pretty poetic bullshit for today because I'm just so fucking tired.
I fail at school and relationships and art and being recovered and being mentally ill.
I fail at everything I try to do or become.
I am just so sick of trying.
I am so tired and I don't think I can make myself do it anymore.

If I can't be a successfully eating disordered person then I don't want to be alive.