The Bell Jar

it haunts me... All the time.. The thick, dark glass trapping the air inside. Sylvia Plath got it too right... No matter where you are, it's there, hovering, waiting like a vulture, for the little words, the little looks, the ones that whisper lies to you. Lies about what an awful, horrible, bad person you are, and you believe it because it's true. And the next time it happens, it gets worse, and you want the blood to flow as freely as it can, because hurting the other people is worse than hurting yourself, too much worse. Because really, what IS the point? Why do I look in the mirror and hate what I see? I can't look in the mirror anymore. Why the hell do I exist? People don't care, I am useless. This hurting is nothing. Nothing nothing nothing. It's better than not feeling at all. Sometimes it goes away and I want to LIVE like nothing else, leave and leave and leave, and keep leaving, nothing to ever tie me down, not my freakishness or the differences in how I think or look or act, not my family trying to stand the simple fact that I'm here. Not the weakness and thoughts of death all the time, hanging, crashing, bleeding, dying dying dying. Where did the blissful ignorance go? I want to be six again, and play in the mud and not care whether my skirt got muddy or not, and cry when I accidentally cut myself on a stick. I'm sick of tearing at my own skin with my nails, trying to leave the only way I can think of. I want to be gone so no one knows who I am, and I can disappear and make up my own story. I want to lie to myself and disappear and be gone. Forever.