I'm not okay.
I fake it till I make it; I smile and I wave and I am that lovable bitch that everyone wants to hang out with for some fucking unfathomable reason. I cook and I clean. I do the laundry. I read books. I post to my blog like a good girl. I write essays that spark controversy and I write prose that few believe I wrote. I surpass what I am every day in every creative endeavor. I dress like a girl and I wear make-up and I make sure I look my best (as good as I want to look being my best). I leave the hair-dye in too long and I sing too loud and off key and inside I'm screaming....
I don't sleep and I drink coffee and I eat badly; I go to my counselor's after getting into a good mood. I punch the wall in the shower so I won't kill someone. I take alcohol and pain-killers in the hope of killing my liver or some other vital inner part of myself, hoping it will die with the voices. The voices don't go away. Inadequate. Ugly. Stupid. Selfish. Greedy. Loud. Bitchy. Imperfect. Lazy. Cold. Heartless. Worthless. The words drill into my brain, bouncing in my echo chamber, reminding me of what I don't want to see and what I don't want to remember. I know it's there and I know I'm not perfect and I know and I know, but I cannot accept it--I do not want to accept it. I do not want to and I can not accept that I am human because I have such high standards of my own behavior and when I fail I find reason to hate myself even more and it starts a cycle over and over and over again.
I wear my emotions on my sleeve; I can't guard myself for shit. I'll keep on getting hurt because I fucking ask for it.
If this is what you want, then fire at will. I'm open. How much more can you wound my heart? It died long ago; I don't think there's a beat left in it. Just hit me again and again and again until I bleed--is this what you want? Is this what you want me for? A punching bag for your issues? Is this my lot in life?
Abuse me, if you think there's any worth in beating a dead horse.