A Mess of a Human

I can cover the scars on my body with fabric, bandages, make-up, or any other object of concealing ability I find.
But still they will never fade.
I'm not ashamed of them.
Should I be?
They are mine
Created by me.
A testament to my unyielding pain.

I can inhale the sweet marijuana and crack smoke, snort line after line of bitter white powder, eat chalky pills, trip on the best hallucinogens I can find.
But still I will never be satisfied.
I will always need more to obtain euphoria.
You can't name me an addict.
Only I can.
Rehab taught me that.

I can restrict my food intake for days or weeks or months if I can manage.
But still I hate my body
And more so myself.
And I will never make it more than a few days
Before indulging in the delicious comfort of that which is forbidden.
An endless cycle of starving, bingeing, puking.

I can dream and fantasize about a life that will never exist for me.
But it will only cascade me further into lonely depression.
Until one day
When I can bear it no more.
I try my hand again at suicide.
Only next time I will not fail.