Tbh

While I may act fully confident about who I am, that is only partially true. Truth is I hate who I am, and the scars on my arm reveal it. I refuse to see my beauty, after all who can be beautiful when every time they look down, they are reminded of their pain. I see myself as fat... Yes... Then I feel like not eating, or at least eating less. My mind just keeps saying, "118 pounds is too much, you should be 96 pounds.. Like you were last summer." But last summer I didn't know who I was, and about gave up on love completely. After all how can someone understand love when every time they hear the words "I love you", that person wants something more? But wanting more always seemed more interesting, so I didn't stop him when he touched me. This went on for too long, and on the night I was going to tell, the person I trusted ended himself. So life alone in a hoarders home became my fate. Living life to the fullest became my bane, And inside my shell I crawled. Safe and sound inside my little ball. The depression grew when on New Years Eve my skin met a knife.. That's when pain became my mind's game, and when I became addicted. I began having thoughts of how I wished someone would hurt me. How I wanted to be raped, how I wanted to to be kidnapped, how I wanted to feel like my life was in danger. Maybe then they would notice me, maybe then they would feel bad. For months I didn't know who I was, hiding underneath a mask, making everyone think I was happy. And after the constant pain, I wanted to give up on love for good. Until he said that he loved me. He was sincere and i fell for him hard. His never ending love cradled me. And my never ending depression shadowed him. But still he loved me, the sad little girl I am.