You hate yourself? What do you mean?

I mean I hate every part of me. I hate the way my hair looks. I hate my thighs, I hate my stomach, I hate my face, I hate my mind, I hate every last bit of me. Its like being trapped with one person you hate with all your heart, the one you find just repulsive, absolutely disgusting and horribly ugly, forever. You know how sometimes you'll look in the mirror and even though you don't like yourself most days, you'll have a day where you can look in the mirror and say, "wow I look good" and be confident? I NEVER HAVE THOSE DAYS. EVER. When I look in the mirror I see the ugliest thing ever. I see my worst enemy. I see my every flaw, because flaws are all I'm made up of.

I hate myself
every little thing
the voice in my head
often reminds me
I should be dead

I hate myself
every tiny detail
my body my face
everything I wish
I could easily replace

I hate myself
every thing I do
I talk too much
and think too much
and wish I could find you

I hate myself
every thought I think
I imagine images
of a happy version
of you and me

I hate myself
every word I say
The words that pour out
the way they are phrased
the words I shouldn't have said

I hate myself
every little thing
I wish someone cared
I wish someone could see
this invisible me

I hate myself
every small wish
I wish to die
I wish to sink
but I never do
bc I'm scared to go through

I hate myself
for being so weak
for not being able to fix
the broken thing that is me

I hate myself. I hate my mind. I hate my body. I hate the way I speak. I hate my emotions. I hate my physical feelings. I hate my life. I hate my writing. I hate my thoughts. I hate the disjointed voices. I hate the way I walk. I hate the way I move. I hate the wayi eat, if I do at all. I hate the things I read. I hate the taste of my own blood. I hate my cheeks. I hate my teeth. I hate my torn up fingers. I hate my scars. I hate my bruises. I hate my hair. I hate my eyes. I hate my smile. I hate my lips. I hate my nose. I hate my diseases. I hate my depression. I hate my suicide. I hate my ADHD. I hate my anxiety. I hate my rumored schizophrenia. I hate my memories. I hate that people like me. I hate that people love me. I hate that people hate me. I hate being alone, but I hate being social. I hate the things I draw. I hate the things I talk about. I hate the treatment I go to. I hate how I try to help. I hate the things I learn. I hate my pain. I hate my blindness. I hate my voice. I hate my hearing. I hate the bracelet that pinches me. I hate the nise it makes. I hate the way the metal smells. I hate the bile in my throat when I feel guilty or scared. I hate the way I bite the inside of my mouth to bake myself bleed. I hate when I scratch and don't remember. I hate the way I shake when I cry. I hate being comforted. I hate when people talk to me. I hate wanting to go on even though I can't. I hate wanting to end this. End it all.

Lately
I have decided
that if I were to come across the window to your soul,
any opening into your thoughts and feelings,
I would walk away.

Hesitate,
I may,
but I don't want any of your toxic beauty to leak in.
I could get trapped once again.

Is that the lowest moment?
When you don't dare to wear shorts because of the scars that cover your legs.
And then you're sitting there at the dinner table with your family,
And they keep on telling you to eat,
But all you mutter is "I'm not hungry",
When you actually are.
You're starving but your image is worth more than a meal.
You eat a few bites just to shut them up,
And then run to the bathroom to rid yourself of it,
To make sure you can fit into those jeans,
The ones that could stand you losing another 5 pounds.
You get used to the lies of:
"I'm not hungry"
"I ate before I came"
And "oh yeah I'm fine, just tired".
Is that your lowest point,
When the only food you're feeding yourself is lies?

You did not call me at 12:58,
2:28,
or 3:47 in the
morning.

And that's
when I realized,
you no longer
care.

she should be celebrated everyday

Not just mothers day.

I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.