to be loved

[petalveined]

 

i don’t know what i want anymore. i’ve been hiding, hurting myself, drowning all my emotions, tearing away my flesh to see what i was. what kind of creature, what kind of human being - if i even was one - but the more i pull at my skin, the less i understand. i can’t pretend, i can’t even lie to myself, it’s not like i care, after all. it’s not like anyone would care. it’s not like i exist, after all.

maybe i can pretend that i do not. maybe if i try hard enough, it will be less painful. to be alive is such a pain, to be here. wanting to hurt myself so bad, wanting to hurt everything, anyone, but just knowing how to hurt my thoughts.

truth is that i don’t know what to be. i don’t know how to be someone, something, even nothing. i wish i was just able to die, sometimes. because it kills me to think about it, to think about everything. about the ugly memories and about the awful future. i’m born only to create pain, i can only live through pain. i don’t understand my emotions. i don’t understand people. i don’t understand anything at all.

i actually miss people. sometimes. all the time. i can be alone. i’m born to be alone. i’ll die alone. i don’t want friends, i don’t want to talk to them. i don’t want to live with them. so why does it hurt so much to be alone? what was the valid reason to hide if i was silently begging to be seen? i thought that being mean would be enough for them to hate me and forget me. that if i was mean, they would hate me. then i could run away from them.so they wouldn’t be hurt. i also thought that if i died, no one would be sad. and that’s okay, because i don’t think i would be sad to die. deep down, i feel like i’m already a little dead. i only exist through people. the last few months, i felt alive. the last few weeks, i realized that i hated this feeling. maybe because i didn't really understand it. i just want people to hate me and i just want to be alone forever. yet when i think about it, i feel like i'm not listening to my true self.

like i don't really know who i am anymore. and in the end, i never really did. i'm condemned to carry the burden of my own existence, the fragments of memories that no one could bear. but i can't do it either. i feel like i'm the one being condemned. that it's the snake i was forced to swallow through my mouth that's poisoning the rest of my body and mind. and all i have left are nightmares, but i don't know if they're real or fake. i don't know if that crying child in the bed is really me or a piece of clothing i decided to put on so someone could console me. so that someone could see me. maybe so that people understand, or try to understand me. i carry my scars but i don’t really know what they represent anymore. i don’t know what i represent myself. my body isn’t really mine, nor is my face. home is an illusion. i don’t really have a home.

if i did, i wouldn’t want to go back. maybe i would find it scary, maybe because i would wonder what it would look like. thinking back, i think i’m fine in my cell. i’m fine alone. this is how i have to stay. it’s not like i can keep people around me. we’re already so hard to love, but i’m probably the worst. i’m not someone you can love, not really; i don’t even know if i know what that is. i don’t know if i love so much that it kills me. or if i don’t love. i can't put it into words.

all my life i just wanted people to see me. to pay attention to me. but instead they treated me like i was broken. and i think everyone thinks they know me better than i know myself. maybe that's true. why even when i dissect myself there are all these things i don't understand? i could die a hundred times and never understand what makes me this way. i could kill a hundred times and never understand why i don't feel anything. i could rip my heart out and swallow it and it's like it's not in me.

and sometimes i feel like i gave it to him. maybe i should have. maybe that's what it means to love. but i'll never know. it's probably better this way. if i'm only capable of hurting - like i hurt him - i'm not capable of understanding what it is to love. hands are either made to kill or they're made to give life. there is no in-between. mine are probably made to kill, maybe to kill me. it sounded so wrong when i was being gentle, it sounded so wrong when they weren’t stained with blood.

so i can only plunge into the dark because i feel like i’m at home. suffocate under the covers because my own hands are incapable of taking my life.

people probably hate me more than anything else. and cruelly, i've learned to accept it. i hate them just as much as they do hate me, but deep down i've always buried this desire for them to end up loving me.

i'm just a lonely body looking for a reason to exist, and i shouldn't. my dreams (my nightmares) give me a reason to be. there, sacrificed or injured, i feel like i'm useful. otherwise, i just exist for the worst. that's why i don't want to go home, the one i imagined.

a few days ago, lucifer let me out of my cell. in fact, i realized that they didn't lock it anymore. they haven't hurt me since. they always gave me that look of contempt, but finally this time, they left me without saying anything. so it's strange if i don't hurt myself. pain is part of me, my skin, my flesh. it has been growing and blooming inside me for as long as i have existed, eventually it makes my blood pulse through my veins. and sometimes i think it could erase my existence. maybe that would solve everything. maybe that would fix all my problems.

today, i haven’t self harmed since 20 days, but who’s counting, right? and i don’t know if i could continue to exist without hurting myself. it’s always about loving yourself and losing yourself, and just falling again. but judas has never been able to do anything but fall. i wish my hands were made for loving, but i guess blood suits them better.