it's hard when you look back at life and realise that so many things that went so incredibly wrong, were all your fault. you single-handedly manipulated each scenario to have the worst possible consequences.
happiness does not evade you. you evade happiness.
you lie under your 600-thread-count sheets every night, tormented by the blinking numbers on your clock, wondering what the hell happened to you. you've become used to this bitterness bubbling up at the back of your throat, keeping you on the edge of hysteria, licking at your need for control. it's your nightly companion. you can't live without this mockery of weakness. you dive in, ready to cry, but stop yourself just in time to feel satisfied at your perceived control. you smile, a smile so caustic and biting that one can't help but wonder who made you this way. you're aware of what everyone thinks of you, but you'd rather they think those horrible things, because then at least you have an identity. you're so lost, your lips mock others, finding faults in them that echo sentiments about yourself.
people have facades, but your facade becomes you. you'd rather have a constant. you're always changing, ticking every single box for insanity. you wonder which you you'll be today. you snap at people even when it's not that time of the month. you're so angry all the time, but your laughs are never fake. in those moments, you're truly happy. you feel yourself being a chirpy warm angel. but you also feel yourself being a defensive psycho. you're not "faking". you need to get a grip, you struggle to breathe when you feel too much, when things won't stop spiralling.
you hide in the nearest bathroom and clutch your chest, willing yourself to calm the fuck down. these incidents are becoming more and more frequent. you wonder why you're even panicking. and there it comes again. it whispers that you're crazy. it dares you to break down. it tempts you to be a damsel and seek solace in the arms of a sweet, willing boy, then throw him away right after. it runs through your veins. you close your eyes.
you're suddenly teetering, rejuvenated by the rage you feel at everything and nothing. you're volatile, you smirk at the hunger you've become so accustomed to. you wail. your screeches alternate with your nervous picking at your scabs, although you don't know what you're so scared of. you scream so loud, then you whimper in fear, thinking someone has heard your screams, although that's all you've ever wanted. you hit the prison bars, so frustrated at being so frustrated, although Sister Frustration has stuck with you the longest. your knees buckle and you need a cry. you're exhausted.
you open your eyes, and there you are, in your bathroom stall. you unlock the cubicle door, walk to the mirror, and, proudly as ever, make sure your makeup is still perfect. you take a deep breath and look at the other women around you. you're convinced you seem you have it all under control. you toss your lip gloss into your Chanel purse, look that selfish, shallow bitch in the mirror in the eye, and smirk.
no one needs to know there's anything else.
