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Why do they always come to me,
With all their problems. And complaining
In the most vague manor, about how
Confusing, terrible, messed up their life is.
And not once, did they ever stop and think
That they weren't the only one that felt that way.
Never did they pause and ask how I was feeling.
And I'm so sick and tired of the inconsiderateness.
Because the monster inside of my is twisting and turning,
And I'm hurting, and there's no one
To make my pain go away.

And sometimes pain turns to hate.

I hate that popping pills didn't kill me or make me feel better.
I hate that cutting only made me feel better for a short time.
I hate that drinking didn't send me into a stupor and make me forget it all.
I hate that throwing up didn't make me feel prettier, just more grotesque.
I hate that starving myself didn't make me thinner or make me feel in control.
I hate how all solutions turned out to be temporary and only made it worse.
The monster inside me won't die.

Someone please help me confront my monster.
Quiet the voice in my head.
Make me feel sane again, like I haven't felt in years.

Each morning I wake up and paint my face on.
Hiding each flaw and every scar.
Painting my skin porcelain and my smile large.
I slip on my costume, ready to hide.
And hide I do so well.
On the outside I look so put together,
But its just a ruse.
Because on the inside I'm in pain.

And I'm just waiting for someone to see the truth.
And I'm just waiting for someone to ask me if I'm alright.
(Because the truth is, I'm not.)