(no subject)
no parts of me remain
-only the stain upon my skin
it should make a difference that all my wounds are self inflicted, that everything that's wrong is my own damn fault. because it is, it is, everything is collapsing, all the walls that I've built up as though they would keep me safe are crumbling around my head. I'm tired, I'm tired, I'm tired of words that don't mean enough, what has ever been more frustrating than being misunderstood?
my legs cramp as my soul expands
curled up, quiet, alone inside my skin
when I was younger I told my mom that there was someone who lived inside of me, I used her to tell my mom how I felt instead of telling her directly and felt so crafty, so goddamned sneaky, but just now it feels like someone inside of me is running frantically, screaming and pounding angry fists against my flesh, bruised from inside.
(because I've always carried my self inflicted wounds
hidden from your prying, crying, eyes)
I've been searching so much for the truth lately, like some sort of cliche, the truth will set me free (from what? myself?).
I think the truth is that I'm everything that I hate.
(but I'll smile like a drug for you
addicted to my lies, you can never know the truth)
-only the stain upon my skin
it should make a difference that all my wounds are self inflicted, that everything that's wrong is my own damn fault. because it is, it is, everything is collapsing, all the walls that I've built up as though they would keep me safe are crumbling around my head. I'm tired, I'm tired, I'm tired of words that don't mean enough, what has ever been more frustrating than being misunderstood?
my legs cramp as my soul expands
curled up, quiet, alone inside my skin
when I was younger I told my mom that there was someone who lived inside of me, I used her to tell my mom how I felt instead of telling her directly and felt so crafty, so goddamned sneaky, but just now it feels like someone inside of me is running frantically, screaming and pounding angry fists against my flesh, bruised from inside.
(because I've always carried my self inflicted wounds
hidden from your prying, crying, eyes)
I've been searching so much for the truth lately, like some sort of cliche, the truth will set me free (from what? myself?).
I think the truth is that I'm everything that I hate.
(but I'll smile like a drug for you
addicted to my lies, you can never know the truth)