Christmas isn’t about being happy.
Christmas is being grateful for the people who’ve stuck around for the ride…




Even if they get off at the next stop.

Empty stares and glazed eyes,
dragging my feet walking to the tub.
Stripping down to my bare self,
helplessness washes over me.
I don't want to see what I've done to me,
the scars, fresh marks,
the guilt, shame, pain,
these wash over as I dip into
my memories.

Hollow feeling creeping into my chest,
wanting to cut out all the parts of me
I hate to see,
coming off of an amazing high
only to be ripped apart by my mind.
It's getting bad again but this time,
no more getting help.

Breathe in
Breathe out
You're gonna be okay,
or not.

1800, 1200, 500,
nothing.

When will I look myself in the mirror
and say, "you are beautiful"

When will I see me
and not cringe in disgust.

When will I feel good
in my own skin?

When will this end?

I hate what I see,
looking at my reflection,
staring back at me

I hate what I saw,
the numbers on the scale,
it destroys my
mental state of being

Why do I hate me?