But Breathing

I’ve been in bed for a while. Lost track of time seemingly a long time ago. It’s dark now, so I’m guessing it’s nighttime. Either that or the world has gone dark and I’m all that’s left on the planet.

I’ve been arguing with my own self since my mother broke me. Not just this time, but the very first time she did it. I’ve been at an eternal struggle with every insult, every yell, everything she’s ever said to hurt me. They filter in through my ears and then float in the twilight of my headspace.

I’ve tried to fight the words off. But they’ve grown within my head, and they’ve taken on a life of their own. Now, I’m slowly realizing the truth: everything she’s ever said is real. It’s true. It’s me.

Faggot. Brat. Smartass. Loser. Freak. Useless. Schitzo. Bastard. Fuck-up. Crazy. Trash. Idiot. Creep. Retard. Liar. Annoying. Weird. Stupid. Pervert. Selfish. Dumbass. Bitch. Ugly. Lazy. Disgusting. Wrong.

A demon. A monster. A mistake. A waste of space. A burden.

Unwanted.

I look at myself in this mirror in my head, and I see myself for what I truly am in it. I see everything she sees. I see me.


“Ugly,” I say, directly to my face. And I wince and my eyes close and I try to think myself away from existence but it never, ever works. I’m still there, I’m still me, and that’ll always be.