I smoke because I associate it with happier memories. When I started I had good conversations and company. I want to remember it, yet stick after stick my memories only become fainter.

I hate my medication because I started it at the worst time of my life, when I had no other choice but to take it. I told myself I took it because I didn’t want to kill myself when in reality I’d already died many times over.

I cut myself because it reminds me of familiar pain; A pain I know how to cope with. And it doesn’t matter how many white welts trace where I tried to bleed my lips blue, it gave me a peace of mind and that was all I needed at that point.

I’m a liar and I wouldn’t advise anyone on trusting me. But one thing I can never cover up is that, I’m a terrible, terrible person. I’m fucked up and I have all these bad habits coupled with warped and twisted ideas – I understand if no one can ever love me.

You, espicially you. Please don’t love me. You must not love someone, who doesn’t not even know how to love herself. 


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