I sometimes scratch too hard, too deep until the crimson bleeds and seeps out of the flesh I tore up in a state of subconscious something.
I used to draw noughts and crosses on my legs as a child and now I draw stress and anxiety.
And sometimes I draw manipulation, because you hate seeing me in pain so maybe if I scratch and scratch and scratch you won’t be angry at me anymore.
See I’m a bad person.

Some days I’m depressed too much.
Sinking deep into sheets I haven't washed in a few weeks, surrounded by plates and lipstick stain free cups because when is the last time I actually had a shower?
Drowning in numbness, beckoning tears because at least at least then I’ll feel something that isn’t just….deepness.
Thick, purple, swirling, deepness.

There have been times in my life where I’m too terrified of a world out there that could eat me up alive that I’m afraid to go outside.
To go outside and be trapped in my own mind, in a situation.
I remember on Christmas Day once I was too scared to open presents in case I had to leave the room and times where I was so afraid to go outside that I didn’t want to go outside
Anymore...
That’s anxiety for you.

But I’m always, without fail, I’m always, just me.
Flawed, anxious, depressed,
angry, obsessive, manic,
crazy, controlling, ****** up,
passionate, invigorated, beautifully imperfect me.
And that's wonderful.