My public personal life.

How would you feel if the most personal thing about you is the only thing people know about you?


Are you imagining? Are you even capable of imagining? Because that is the reality I live in every passing day.


I see everything surrounding me, but I wish I was blind, so I wouldn't be able to notice the stares.


I listen to my music a little too loudly, but I wish I was deaf, so I wouldn't be able to hear the loud whispers.


My lungs welcome the fresh air, but I desperately wish it would stop functioning. Why? Funny you ask.


Question marks roam my head, making me unable to answer your question.


Its never easy when all that people see when looking at you are those scars that stretch all the way on your arm. Society doesn't care enough to look at the reasons forcing you to pick up a razor blade. They don't listen to your deafening screams for help. They don't become aware of your battles and combats against yourself. No.


They encounter my life, not wanting to know, but only to scandalize what they want.


And I've reached a point, where silence seems to be the loudest noise I've ever heard. Smiles seem to hurt more than words, and the pain is equal to the feeling of numbness.


And the darkness makes me feel like glow.


A twisted story, a distorted encounter, an abnormal citizen.


Soon enough, the light appears.


But I question my reality.


Am I chasing a ray of hope? Or my own illusion?


They tell me I'm desperate for attention, that's why I'm too skinny.


They tell me I crave sympathy, that's why I bleed publicly.


They tell me I try too hard, that's why I chase their endorsement.

But that's not the story, it was never the story.


What happens when the face you see in the mirror is your worst enemy, and the voice of your own conscience happens to be the monster that lives inside you?


What happens when you're stabbed in the back, and you surrender to the open scars?


What happens when promises are empty words, and the only thing you can rely on is your dark corner in your head?


What happens when the dark is not as scary anymore? But is more like a safe place, keeping you away from yourself, where not even you can judge yourself.


What happens when company loves misery, not the other way around?



"Happiness will find you."


"Love can mend all."


"Time heals."


But I have come to find that we tell ourselves what we desperately want to believe.


Because neither time nor an emotion can fix personal destruction.


Can it?


Leaving those questions unanswered, until you step into my shoes.