I could talk about the pain of the years past, the past that now sneaks up on me like a hungry dog, and there is no escape. I could talk about my struggle for acceptance that eventually turned to self hate. The dialogue I had then, as I have now, to myself. “Do you see how pathetic and disgusting you are? You’re so stupid and lazy. Look at what a fat cow you are? You are worth nothing.” I could talk about the times I sit quietly on the bathroom floor with a razor, or a knife, or a sharp piece of glass, carving into my arms, my legs, my stomach, hating myself for not being able to stop.
I could say that the self-hatred is killing me, but I’m already dead. There is nothing left of me. I am an empty shell walking around half hoping to be hit by a city bus.
