I read somewhere a good writer is honest.
it used to be easy, I would write about loving a boy so much I was afraid I would burst. I would write about getting drunk and telling him my deepest secrets. I used to write about wanting to rip myself open when he left me.
I milked my heartbreaks till I got every drop.
now all I have is my own self hate, anxiety, and lack of self esteem, nothing is covering that up. I cannot blame my shaking hands on missing his touch anymore. I do not even remember their names anymore. This is on me and my refusal to get better.
It’s terrifying, to come face to face with your demons.
Now that every inch of them is gone I can see all the damage I did.
I do, I do want to write about it but I am terrified, I have done so much damage in the name of finding happiness.