when i was younger

trigger warning: suicidal thoughts, mention of blood, self-harm, and just some generally heavy topics. please be safe while reading, and if you need to talk to anybody, find a crisis line in our area here.

when i was younger, i used to smear blood on book pages. so whenever i read through my old copy of harry potter and the dealthy hallows, there’s still reddish stains to remind me of it. remind me what a mess i am. remind me that i don’t know why this happened, or who did this, and maybe it’s just genetics, but if it’s just genetics, i still don’t understand what did i do to deserve this? when i was younger, i used to think a lot about what other people thought. and sometimes, i would spend hours just imagining how much they hated me. how much of a burden i was. pushing myself down further and further, wondering how long it would take to turn to dust. and other things i still do, like aimless google searches, shouting out into oblivion. and crying after school. and hurting myself between answering emails and text messages. when i was younger, i used to slam my head against the wall with tears streaming down my cheeks just begging the world to make it over. when i was younger, there was a knot of feelings in my chest, and i didn’t know what to do with it. so i learned to crash and burn, and spark, and hiss, and go off, and maybe growing up turned me into some kind of bomb. and maybe i’m tired of constantly drifting through the danger zone. because i still do it. and then… i got older. and then i fell apart in so many different ways and clicked a couple puzzle pieces together. and listened to songs that made me sob my eyes out on the floor because all the emotions come on like a tsunami, and i’m not really sure what’s happening to me. and…  then i got older. and i tried to remember what hope felt like, and i’m still not entirely sure. and some days, it’s hard to believe i am not seven years old anymore. but i am not seven years old anymore. i am older. and braver. and smarter. and stronger. strong enough to admit that i’m fucked up. strong enough to try and deal with it. strong enough, in the way you become after years of trying to pick yourself up off the ground and finally sort of managing it. so much stronger. and maybe i can write myself a place where i’m ok. and maybe, maybe, someday i’ll get there.


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