I fear the day I stop avoiding my gaze in the mirror. I push away the people who try to help me, because I’m sick. Somehow, I want it to get worse. I want it to grow, to take over, to control me as if I’m trying to prove something to myself. I choke myself until I can’t breathe. I can't make it better. I don’t want it to get better. My worst fear is having it good. My worst fear is acceptance. If I don’t feel this way, who am I? Who am I without this mind that hurts me? It wears. It’s like a performance. And that’s the most maddening part, knowing it’s a show I keep putting on. Why do I want to be hurt? Why do I keep walking into rooms that make me bleed when I can see the exit? I’m a carnivore. I crave what pulses. I chase what runs. I sink my teeth into the things I don’t understand. I can’t even understand myself. Who am I without the thirst for isolation and pain? Who am I without the comfort of my shame and my obsession over old wounds? Who am I without the dark thoughts that keep me company? Who am I when I’m happy? Am I happy? Every good thing I do, I burn.