I’m a mess.

It’s hilarious,

So funny I want to laugh through my pain.

But it’s fine.

Spotify’s fucking with my head,

Playing songs that make me wanna scream and tear something apart,

And then songs that tear out my heart and leave me trying to remember how to breathe.

And then songs that make _me_ want to tear out my heart so I stop breathing.

It’s fine.

I stained my sheets and my favorite pajama shirt,

Which I’m pretty pissed about,

Cause I know the bloodstain won’t come out.

I made “cat scratches” on my wrist that nobody bothered to ask about,

So now I know I don’t even have to hide it.

My legs are running out of empty canvas, anyway.

It’s comforting to know I could go for my wrists if I wanted.

How fucked is that,

Feeling genuinely comforted by that?

It’s fine.

My stomach is empty,

Because I forgot to eat anything but pretzels and it’s 6 pm,

But the fridge is empty too, anyway.

It’s fine.

I’ve been on the treadmill for way too long,

But it’s so satisfying seeing the calories tick up and up.

I don’t even care about my weight.

I’m just lost in proving to myself that I _can_.

And I’m hearing You Might Not Like Her blasting through my headphones,

(My favorite song forever, or for the next two days.)

Volume so high it’s probably damaging my hearing.

But that might be better,

Maybe I’ll lose my hearing and listen to the thoughts in my head all day.

Maybe I’ll go insane.

Maybe that would be easier.

It’s fine.

I’ve got one person who stays in my messages.

One. Single. Person.

I text my _mom_ more than most of my friends.

But it’s fine.

Less people to hurt, right?

I’ve drafted, like, seven posts, but I can’t bring myself to be honest.

I keep deciding it’s too depressing,

People might realize how bad it is in my head.

People I care about might care about _me_,

Which would be catastrophic.

I’m scared I’ll hurt them.

If nobody knows, nobody hurts but me, right?

And that’s a sacrifice I’ll gladly make.

It’s fine.

And I feel so, so useless.

For one, I’m so fucking rude about everything.

Why do I have to be like that?

And I can’t even be helpful when I want to be.

My mom made a chore chart,

Because she was sick of me and my sister not helping.

And then I went and mixed up the days I was supposed to do things,

Meaning she had extra work to do when she’s already stressed enough.

I can’t even scoop the fucking cat boxes on the right days.

How utterly worthless does that make me?

But whatever.

It’s fine.

It’s fine.

I’m fine.

Everything’s fine.

_Obviously_.

…

It’s not fine.

I’m not fine in the slightest.

And I don’t know what to do.

Maybe it would really be better if I just left.

Nobody to bicker with my sister.

Nobody to let my parents down.

Nobody to break the hearts of amazing girls.

Nobody to scare my friends.

Nobody to hurt the people I love.

Nobody to hurt me.

I don’t mean that.

Not really.

Not now, at least.

Cause right now?

It’s fine.