my own hell

These cuts and scars are more than skin deep, an empty stomach could maybe represent a bit of my life. sleepless nights and a restless body, a restless mind. a cut is only in hopes of allowing the pain to flow out, releasing maybe a fraction of my self hate. maybe it's just me but i think it takes a lot of self hate to starve your self away, in hopes that in a few days your heart will stop...if you're lucky. maybe desperate, maybe hopeless, maybe even crazy...so be it, there is hope for me, possibly, somewhere so far away it's vague for me to see, looking at the benefit of a doubt. misunderstood is what i am, forcefully pegged as depressed, confused, lost. i am not lost, questioning my purpose, yes but not everyone without a purpose is useless, they find their way, whatever it is that helps them sleep at night, i envy it. the only thing i see for myself is understanding my hurt to a tee. understanding my diorder is another thing i must say. it's like a math problem, getting close to wrapping your head around it and then someone rips up your paper and you have to start all over, it's like constant mind sweep and every now and then you remember piece by piece and you try to go by that and theres no writing it down because you'll never understand it again, i do it everyday, i suppose that i would be the first person to know. hate is the root of my motivation, i do whatever i do usually because there's someone on my mind i hate, usually myself i suppose my habits could tell you that. you ask why i hate myself and i ask why do you not? you only see what i allow you to only because i'd never let you in, you'd get lost, you'd fear me only because you can't understand me, i know you, i've pegged you and i'm right but i am secretive and observing. i watch what you don't, i know what you don't and i question what you don't. why must watch, why must i bother? because only i can hurt me. you've hurt me before, yes i can't deny, but i can give you my word that it'll never happen again.