I am food for the soul and
when I'm ****** up that's the real me.
but that comes in waves.
last night i cut myself and it didn’t feel the same anymore,
i threw away all of my razors,
and said goodbye to the real me.
i do not like the real me,
the real me is a sadder version of what i present to others.
when i’m ****** up that’s the real me.
i started smoking to feel real again.
if i killed myself would i stop being so fake?
am i supposed to embrace the real parts of myself if they’re toxic?
they love the real me
they love it when i’m ****** up and stumble on my words.
they think suffering is poetic,
and i’m their poetic goddess.
I'm at a party
Giving myself away to the next person who acts like they want me
I don't care anymore
because no cared about me
when i'm ****** up,
that's the real me.