The Art of Self-Destruction

I am the queen of self destruction. Ritualistic Razor sharp scrutiny of my reflection - constantly spewing hate at my mid-section, whilst effortlessly faking the pursuit of perfection. A crumbled up heart beckons restitution in the midst of train-wrecked relationships, ruinous friendships, and crumbled up to do lists, in white-knuckled fists. The essence of happiness remains a mere mirage for one who is an expert in self-sabotage. With nothing but empty reminders sprayed out on a dreary collage, it is exhausting living an ever consuming facade. Procrastinated plans worship at my feet, whilst brooding and bellowing as I hit snooze on repeat. Impatiently my ambitions take a seat, before wisely declaring undeniable defeat. Daily my mind’s army assumes a familiar avoidant stance. Love and hate engage, again, in a repetitive dance, between an avoidant retreat and a stagnant advance. It is clear: as long as I sit on the throne of self-destruction, for me… for being whole.. there will not be another chance..