shoving your fingers down your throat does not make you glamorous.
not eating for days does not make you strong.
sniffing and shooting up anything you can does not make you hard.
mental illnesses are not signs of power.
they do not make you look cool in front of your friends.
they do not make you look fragile or elegant or graceful.
they make you ugly, on the inside; the out.
no one cares about the sick little girl crying in her bed at four in the afternoon.
you’ve pushed everyone away so you can continue to destroy yourself.
well, no one’s watching.
no one cares anymore.
we are not beautiful, or creatures to be envied.
we are sick and stupid and pitiful.
we are angry and miserable and dying.
we are not buildings in the making,
we are the old, broken train tracks waiting to be destroyed.