Nothing.

One second you can be composed and relatively content and the next you can be in tears after realising all of what you've been trying to hold inside.


I cut myself and hurt myself, I'm a pain slut. Yes. Why do I do that? Why don't I care about my body? Why am I such an idiot to take any sharp edge near me and gorge out my skin with it? Why?


I just had a conversation that suddenly resulted in me resenting ever speaking to the person on the other side of the phone. It wasn't because he was particularly horrible... It was more what he made me think about.


I've been forcing myself to be happy in order to get over someone recently. Yet now, that all seems to be even more fake than I initially realised. 


All the pseudo-happiness, the cutting, the bleeding, the butterfly-shaped scars... it means and does nothing.


I've just remembered how much I hate being me.


--J.