I Don'T Even Bother Editing It Before I Post It And Wait

Stuffed between two pillows,my head was still and my breathing was warm and hard,with the prickling feeling of guilt covering me like a blanket.I ached to sob, but my eyes wouldn't succumb,they seemed adement on keeping my irises dry and stinging from perpetual burning.

First, I write to show my thoughts and my personality. It helps me show who i am and what i can set my mind to do. I constantly overthink when i’m writing and always think “this is not good enough, erase it,

I slowly back away from the table. I peel off the sticky gloves and rip away the mask, swallowing the cold air. I am numb to the pain in my body, as I turn to escape that room. I speed away. I shove open the door to the bathroom, yank on the sink, and splash the ice water on my face. My breathing is labored from the effort, and my face is red and shiny from the sweat as I stare down at my shaking hands. I want to rip them off: my hands that didn't push hard enough, didn't pump his heart enough, or got tired too quickly. I clench these hands until the knuckles are white, and then I keep clenching. My nails dig into my palms, scraping away the skin and drawing blood; my body is still numb to the pain. I slowly unclench my fists and gently place them into the sink. With the cold water gliding over my hands, I reach over and squirt soap into my palms and scrub. I keep furiously scrubbing, trying to remove my skin from under my nails, washing away the sweat and the stench of burnt hair that remind me of the events that have just

“Oh my!” Her mother beams at her, pride evident in her eyes. “My daughter... thriving in a man's world.”

I hold the paper in my hands. It’s crumpling under my grip, but in it I get to live in the footsteps of others. My old dress is wrinkled and torn much like the paper, but I can’t spare the money on a new one. As much as I try to focus on the crinkled piece of paper with scrawly handwriting, I can’t. I just can’t. Tears run down my face and I wipe them away. It has been awhile since I have cried, so long in fact that I was afraid that there was something wrong with me. I push myself up from the old oak I sit at the base of. There’s no use in dwelling in what I can’t change. I fold the paper back in my dress pocket and walk into the field. I used to think there was beauty in the way that the grass grows in the street; standing low next to the

He cried on my shoulder that morning in his hospital room when he saw himself in the mirror for the first time. The right side of his handsome face sagged, and he couldn't open his drooping eye. He didn't cry because of vanity, but rather because the image looking back at him represented a lost way of life.

She stares at herself in the mirror, examining every self inflicted scar from picking scabs. Her skin tone is grey and dull. Her hair has gotten oily and unkempt. She stopped caring about her looks and was not aware of it. There are age spots on her face that seem to have appeared over night. She touches her face and strokes the bags under her eyes with her finger tips. She looks now at what used to be a beautiful smile and cannot believe that her teeth have decayed, they are almost gone. It saddens her and she looks away. She feels ashamed of what she has become. She looks back at the mirror only to be looking into her eyes. With a hoarse voice she utters the words, “How did this happen?”

I stared at the mirror and tears trickled down my face. It was the kind of feeling where all the pain that you had been storing came out in full force. I wanted to smash the mirror in hopes that while smashing it, my pain would be smashed too. I hated myself.

I turn the tap and rinse the sink of my blood. I wipe my face and stare deep into the mirror. I no longer recognize the figure staring back, I am faceless, useless. I raise my hand to shave one last stroke, my hands begin to tremble, the blood excites me, yearning the very instinct inside, but my duty is done, and now I am trapped in a prison of an unfamiliar normality. Today I realize there are things; things even worse than

As you are probably wondering my reasoning for crying, I’m trying my best not to start with my fit again because of the thoughts I must think to write this down. I have what most would call ‘self-image issues’. They started my 5th grade year. They have done nothing but progressed and now this is where I am: spending my time on my bathroom floor crying, writing in this book about my issues. I was bullied, physically and verbally, neglected, lied and cheated on… I’m not too sure the reasoning. I have always been the best person that I possibly could be to everyone that I come in contact with. People took advantage of my kindness, but I didn’t mind it because everyone needs favors and love.

My reflection mimicked my actions in the bathroom mirror as I slowly straighten my hair. The process never exceeded fifteen minutes, reasonably because my hair was naturally dull. Slowly, I flicker my eyes towards the mirror out of curiosity. There was something about the lifeless look in my eyes, that even makeup couldn't cover up. The previous nights events flash across my mind.

I sat up as my eyes started to fill with tears. I clenched my arm trying to forget the pain I was currently feeling. I was trying to catch my breath but my heart felt like it was pounding one million beats per second. The grass was drowning in the water rushing from my eyes. All I could think of was pain.

I didn’t grow up in the best of circumstances. I grew up in a neighborhood filled to the brim with crime. My father was a low ranking gang member with little to no room for advancement. My mother was a heroin addict. Or whatever she had on hand. Sometimes my father joined her, but when he got high or drunk he became very abusive. That was typically when I snuck out and hid out at a friend’s house for a few hours. But I never stayed the night. My father made a habit of visiting my room, as if trying to make up for the fact that every time that he lifted his hand, maybe to catch my attention or something harmless like that, I would flinch away from him.

I’m not okay. I have dreams that should belong in a perverted male teensger’s head, I know things that I should not have known until I was much older, and I feel things that I should not have felt until i was at least 15. I dislike it, but I have to deal with it now because there is no way to turn it around anymore. None of the actions that are in question occurred at a very young age, but other things did that made me understand more than my little mind was supposed to be able to handle.

Wet tears stream down my face and run off my chin. Using the back of my hand I try to wipe away the tears that blurs my vision. However, more tears roll down my face the moment I approach my front door. Taking the key out of my pocket I slide it into the lock of the door. I shift my bag further up my shoulder with my hand and drop my keys in the opening before entering. I take a moment at the steps and try to contain my rapid breathing. Sighing I extend my arm and push through the door.