I don’t even know what day it is anymore.
It feels like the days just blended together in never-ending misery.
I didn’t ask for this.
I didn’t ask to be sad,
To wake up every day only to find tear stains on my pillow and broken glass on the floor.
I hate this feeling,
Never being good enough.
Wanting to be somebody else.
Unable to find fault in,
Not bullied or made fun of.
But that’s impossible.
That life was not meant for me.
That’s who I shall be
A prisoner of my own despair,
Yet a jailer who holds the key.
I am both of these, one and the same,
Forever bruised and hurting.
Scars adorn my body and mind.
Not always visible, but there all the time.
Yet I have some questions for a future me:
Did you like starving yourself to the point of fainting?
Where your only memories were the pain of hunger that creeps back and grows stronger each night?
How about the cutting? The bruises?
The burn marks on your skin left by your own hands?
When you turned the shower on its highest setting and forced yourself to stand under the scalding hot water as it pierces your skin.
You scream but say that the pain feels good, so you at least feel something other than the hunger.
Yet you step out of the shower, cold now but steam covering the bathroom mirror.
You wipe it away with your now quivering hand, scared of what you might find staring back at you.
Your reflection, can you even recognize it?
The sunken eyes, hair so thin that when you run your hands through it chunks of your hair come out.
How when you turn to the side you are both pleased and horrified to count the number of ribs protruding.
You fall. Your legs can’t hold you up anymore, so, with a quiver and a shake, your body is then naked on the bathroom floor.
The cold tiles in sharp contrast to the burning water from earlier. Your mom knocks on the bathroom door, asking if you’re okay.
You yell, screaming at her to go away, to just leave you alone like you always should have been.
Did you enjoy hearing her muffled cries through the door, the soft pitter-patter of her feet as she stumbles away?
Did you enjoy rifling through the medicine cabinet, reading each warning label as if it were a dare just begging you to take your own life?
Did you enjoy the sleepless nights?
Closing your eyes for just a moment only to reopen them with the newfound wetness on your cheek?
It’s your tears.
You cried in your sleep.
What were you dreaming about that could be worse than what you already forced yourself to endure?
Did you enjoy the tossing and turning, the stepping on broken glass in the morning?
Did you enjoy this?
Any of it?
Then why the fuck did you do it?
All your life, people have hurt you, chipped away at whatever strength you had.
But it wasn’t their words that broke you. No, that was all you.
For that, you should be mad.
-WAF member Allyson Weubbe, 2021