I grew jealous of your naivety
your sheltered life
the calmness of your thoughts
and the safety you found in your pristine house
A house that had not been burnt to the ground by uninvited visitors
you still held your innocence within your hands
grasping tightly onto the hopes and dreams of a child
the spark in your eyes yet to be extinguished

I was envious of the positivity captured within your soul
the nonchalant filter through which you viewed the world
your vision remained unobscured
the cruel reality of the world had yet been revealed
your life remained normal, uneventful
Everything I lacked
everything I desperately wanted

My reflection haunted me
following me wherever I went
each mirror, window, glass pane
depicted a stranger’s body
a body that I wanted to disown
I burnt my house to the ground
abusing my fragile mind and body
distorted images of myself constantly flashed by my eyes
a vision that only I seemed to be able to see
a disillusioned truth I was unable to escape

Picking myself apart
slowly plucking away at each string
Unravelling
searching for something
anything good
yet always coming up empty handed

I desperately craved a sense of satisfaction
I never managed to taste
no matter how much I manipulated my body
making it painfully disappear
it was never enough

Truly believing that my flaws
my insecurities
were the only thing that I possessed  
my refection only ever revealed the things I lacked
the ugliness of it bringing me to tears

My tormented mind drove me to extremes
completely losing myself and any sense of sanity
illogical thoughts became logical
controlling my actions
dictating my life

Somewhere along the way
my quest for perfection
Became a quest for self-destruction

For death

This blood is unable to be washed away
forever staining my hands
working its way into every crevice,
under every nail
red contrasting with translucent skin

I cannot scrub away this pain
these scars will not disappear
like tattoos inked onto skin
each jagged line
forever reminding me of what
this broken mind is capable of

The blame was a burden on its own
the constant hum of voices
a guilty conscience that won't fade
guilt that builds
filling the voids left by your actions
threatening to break through the surface
of your carefully rehearsed act
the weight of it crushing
drowning in perennial sorrow
cracks running so deep
valleys carved into your soul
threatening to shatter with the slightest change of the wind