I used to be good. Full of life. I had morals, and a pure heart. I wanted to make everyone happy, but forgot about myself. I'm not writing this so someone can know that my heart was good.. it was good.
I grew up overweight.
Every single person looking at me like I'm animal who needs a cage, but they never understood that every pound was an equevalint to every night my parents screamed their hatred at each other. You saw obesity, and I saw sadness. I saw struggle. I saw pain. I saw my mom being pushed up against a wall by my father's forearm. I saw bruises left and right. I saw my moms sanity slowly slip away. Measure that around my waist and youll see a kid who tried to measure the distance between his father's neck tie and the distance between the floor. So I could step off a chair and hope God isn't real so I can either stop existing or be born in a new life because Hell was surely waiting for me if my closet wood hanger wouldn't have broke.
I lost weight because I became disgusted with myself.
I hoped to find love but discovered pleasure instead. It sat down deep within my skin call me to release a dark amount of pressure built up within my skull. It made me hate myself more for allowing myself to a slavery of self pleasure. Feeling worth in weight only transferred my sickness to my mind where I would watch a screen to feel better. Where I would touch myself to give a sense of what happiness could be. So I would choke myself, beat myself, and cry out to someone to save me from my mental state because a rope around my neck sounded like a solution again.
I met a girl
I met a girl whom I crushed on from afar. I liked her for 3 years and in that time I confessed my feelings. She was interested in this childish game of love,but that's the thing about children, they can only be occupied for so long before they want something else. Summer hit. We didn't hang out. My love never stopped but her love was never real. On my 18th birthday her friend told me at my party that she didn't want me anymore. I stayed up for countless hours crying. She gave me a cactus as a present.. I took it and cut my wrist until it bled.
I lost hope. Stopped caring.
To be continued..
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