I did it again.

Even these feelings are something that needs to be expected,
even thought beforehand, I'd forgotten about it for a few minutes.
It's hard to face myself afterwards,
and getting up is becoming so annoying now,
repeating the same, old, same, old.
I wish I could live up to the image of myself that I create inside of my head,
the image that is not like this.
The image that is mine, that is pure, that is normal.

Everybody says I never disappoint them.
"You only disappoint yourself."
Of course, it felt that way at first.
But nobody seems to care anymore, at least that's how it seems.
I should care, but I don't, because of course...
I am only disappointing myself.
But am I disappointing them by disappointing myself?
I don't know. I wish they'd tell me.
They're such closed books. Their minds are too hard to read.
I can't seem to look into their eyes because they're constantly flickering their eyelids
and underneath are rehearsed things that they'd say when I'd ask them,
things like, "I love you just the way you are" and "It's not your fault".
I wish I could take a paintbrush and paint black underneath their eyelids.
Black paint, painting all over those lines that they wrote,
and rehearsed, and said to themselves in the mirror,
pretending they were talking to me.
I wish they'd stop feeding me lies,
because I know the truth.
What I am doing, is getting the best of me.
This feels like they're slowly crawling all upon my skin,
almost as if I'm inside of the mouth of them, and I'm on the edge of their throat,
and they're just about to consume me.
And I've been in that position for, what feels like, forever.
But it's only been a few months.
A year, tops.
I wonder when they'll finally engulf me, and just take me over completely.
I wonder how it'd feel.
Would it be better than this?
Constantly feeling ashamed and always forgetting who I really am behind this?
The definition of myself is hard to read.
The lines are fumbled and the letters are written backwards,
in crooked lines along the margins.
Maybe an alien could read it,
and tell me who I am.
Tell me how to change.
Tell me how to fix it.
Tell me how to get rid of this.
It just sucks so bad, knowing what it all feels like
and still doing it afterwards.
Maybe I'll tell you a little about it...

When temptation strikes, it's the hardest thing to ignore.
It reminds me of something that happened last year.
It was my grandmother's ninty-eighth birthday,
and temptation was sitting next to me, picking at his peas.
It was the same day as the biggest bash of the decade.
While everybody was talking about work, and friends, and school and all types of stupid shit like that,
temptation overtook me.
Spoke aloud for me. Disguised his voice for me. Ruined everything for me.
We excused ourselves, and I hid in my closet
threw on anything I could find (or couldn't find)
and ran to get there by foot.
I had ran ten miles in five inch stilletto heels;
but it didn't seem far at the time.
But oh, that party. It was suppose to be SO good.
The best food, the best people, the best fucking thing ever.
And we just wanted to GO. So BADLY.
He told me that if I didn't, "you're missing out on life.
You feel as if this thing is so great that compared to your life,
your life is so boring, that without this one moment,
it will stay like that forever.
Just a bunch of boring events in boring days, in your boring life."
And even if it's not reality, even if you KNOW it's not reality,
you take up the offer immediatley,
you feed the need.
And the more you do it, the more you get sucked in.
It's like you're a fish in an ocean, but the water drains,
and the more time passes, it gets smaller. And smaller.
It turns into a lake... then a river... then a stream...
and it's just so easy for somebody to rip you out of that water
and take you into their own hands.
It's so damn easy.
And that's what happens.
But besides that agony of being owned by whoever captures you,
you have to live with what you've let happen to yourself.
Every part of your body feels like it's betrayed you.
You wonder why your mouth didn't tell you to stop,
and you blame your legs are letting you walk there.
You blame every single body part, besides the whole damn thing.

For me, it was my damn hands.
It was all of my hands' fault.
All ten fingers, all of their faults.
After I'd feed my need,
My hands would feel like knives.
Knives that jabbed into myself as I continued to fall,
feeding my hunger.
And before I'd stab myself with my pointy knife-like fingers,
I always thought it'd be absolutley amazing; beautiful.
I always thought I'd feel on top of the world, greater than life.
Then I would remember
how wrong
it was.

Let me tell you,
every
single
time
afterwards...
Your world will crash down.

And of course you curse yourself later on.
And say, "I could have, would have, should have"
And it doesn't make a difference now.
Back to the cycle,
back to begging for forgiveness,
back to disappointment.
And as many times as you are guarenteed to be shameless again,
it always comes back around.
Taunting you.
Silently mocking you.
It's yelling slowly, silently in your ear.
It's telling you that you'll fall and break,
nobody will revive you,
but it will be the best however-many-minutes-possibly-days of your life.
And for some reason, you will always believe it.
Because even knowing that it was my worst enemy,
I always believed it.

I'm sitting here now.
The dark night is falling upon the earth,
and I feel ashamed again.
My hands feel like a perpetuous motion causing me defeat,
They feel so detached that you could fit the feeling around my feet.
They have a new odor, a vicious scent, a smell of deciet
and it fills my nose with a guilt so complete.
The contours of my body are sore from giving in more and more each day,
and all I have left, is my heart.
Somehow, it's still functioning. Beating. Reminding.
I wonder how long for it to take before it's beating is offbeat and irratic.
I want nothing more than to just sleep right now,
and I would, if I didn't know what was ahead of me.
That's one benefit of getting used to this,
because you know that after you do it
you have nightmares.
Several, vicious nightmares.
They get annoying, because you lose your touch inside of them.
You forget that you're sleeping and you get stuck there.
My mind never allows me to wake up anymore.
Sometimes, I wonder if this feeling is just a vicious nightmare.
Maybe this isn't really happening. Am I stuck inside of my head?
Stuck inside of these monsters that're eating me?
Am I being tempted again?
Behind this painted vision of terror behind my eyes,
am I really as pure as I imagine myself to want to be?
Am I really different? And do I own myself?

Then the worst part comes.
I wake up.
And I remember what I've done.
And I remember that it's not a nightmare.
And then I wish that it was one,
because I realize how much better the nightmare is than reality.
And all in all, I know it's getting worse.
Each body part that I had isn't mine anymore,
and I'm sliding off of their tongue, and into their throat, down to their belly.
I'm almost theirs. And I don't want to be.
Where are those aliens who can read those fumbled definitions when you need them?
I need to know how to fix this. And maybe those strange creatures would know how.
Because I don't want to be used to this anymore.
And this story is getting so old, that it's making me dreary.

I just want to live up to the image of myself that only I can create.
An image that the monsters I've given myself to, can't make.
The image that's inside of my head.
The image that's inside of my dreams.
The image that's in, what's suppose to be, reality.