Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
A L I C E Feb 17
I’m scared to be at home
To say in this house
With or without people there
I’m scared to be in my own room
Scared to lay in bed
Or sit at my desk
Or even sit on my carpet
I’m scared because my room it’s like a whole different world
A world of triggers and flashbacks
A world of “your never good enough “
And worthlessness
A world of self harm and depression
A world of anorexia and anxiety
And not to forget the suicidal thoughts
But the thing is I spend more time in my room then I do breathing..
This room has been painted over and over with torturing memories
It’s been coated in with blood that has been purposely slit open from my self-destruction
I’ve tried paining over it all with white paint what we call smiles but I always see the blood stain on my hands
Scars that have been placed for a Enturnity
When I look at my bed
I don’t see the wall handing place on the wall
I don’t see my grey fluffy throwover or
My polaroid photo blanket
Or my pillows
Or the comfort of sleeping
I see it as a torture chamber
A place I overdosed on
A place I felt scars
A place that I slept on but yet still felt tired
A place where I would stave myself
A place were I cried and cried
A place full of bad memories
When I look at my desk
I don’t see a place where homework should be done
I don’t see decorations
I don’t see paper
I don’t see photos of friends
I don’t see my calendar
I see giving up  
I see a place hiding places for blades
I see new suicide notes
I see lonelyness because friends don’t seem like friends anymore
I see another day of hell of trying not to eat and survive without killing myself
I see a place where I would open blades
I see calorie counts
I see left over food
I see old tissues of blood
Over the years everything that was sad turned numb
All sad music didn’t feel sad anymore
I’ve learnt that you can dead while still living
Your not dead when your heart has stop
Your dead when your heart beat has no meaning

Like mine..
.. </3

— The End —