I hurt. I physically hurt from all of the pain in my mind. People never seem to get that. I am addicted to blood and the sting of the flame. I am trying to get rid of my twisted perceptions and heal my past wounds. I can't help when I cry, when I am in pain. It hurts to stand. It hurts to speak. It hurts to blink. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to simply be. I draw on myself when I want to bleed and all it results in is ink poisoning. The sharpie all offer my arms and legs symbolize what I want to do: mutilate whatever unscarred skin I have left.
My guilt eats me alive, not a miracle or cure in sight. I can't help the pain I am in. I regret so much, but want to live so little. I won't have time to repay for my sins. Won't have time to deal with the way I've lived my life. Won't have time to truly say what I want to say.

I am broken.
I am scratched.
I am scared.
I am hurt.
I am done.
I am suicidal.

I worry myself in every way possible. I worry others in every way possible. I've starved myself for days on end and then eaten everything I could because it hurts. I've tried to **** myself more than once in every month, and now it has been a year since I have. Tomorrow marks the day that I almost died. And I don't know if I trust myself with those numbers: 365 days ago, at 9:27pm I nearly suffocated.

I am done with all of the pain. It backfires and all I do is cause suffering. I am done.