#look i wrote and wrote and it's slightly tangible I think but I'm not rereading it right now.

[strange-ghoul]

im... unwell. read tags

blood dripped down my body from my mouth. I couldn't identify where the pain was coming from, but it was somewhere.

I've thrown up multiple times by now. My body wracked with chills as I laid naked on the bathroom floor. I felt exposed, horrible, disgusting, but there I was. Alive. Somehow.

I crawled my way back to the toilet, throwing up again. The bile got onto my hair and stained my teeth, but I couldn't bring myself to take care of it. I had to get this... bug, out of my system.

The bug being something I didn't understand. It was a feeling in my chest, sinking into my stomach. It was something that began to take over my entire body, all the way to my brain. It made me feel deplorable, it made me feel like my body wasn't mine anymore. The urge to rip aspects of my body off were becoming more and more apparent, where soon I knew impulse control would fail.

Would it be so bad to take a knife to my chest, forever securing the feeling of steel and blood to me? Would it be so bad to take off what has hurt me?

I thought back to the bridge nearby. Maybe it's easier there. Maybe if I fall, I'll be okay. Maybe the darkness would hold me and coddle me, love me until even my memories became dust.

Nobody would be there, and it was night already; does a tree really make sound when it falls, even if nobody was there to hear it?

I crawled back to the side of the bathtub, tears already falling down my face again. Everything on my body felt like it was aching and burning.

How hard was it to be cared for? How hard was it for somebody to reach out to you and hold you? Even if it was metaphorically, even if it was just a writing, why was it so hard to be loved?

I can't feel love the same as others. I don't understand romance, I don't feel it. Neither do I understand human touch.

Was it because I was scarred from it? Was the abuse I endured just enough for me to swear it off wholly?

Or was it just me. Am I aromantic? Asexual? I think so. I have no desire for either, even if I acted that I did.

But did this mean I didn't deserve love?

It sure felt like it.

I took a shaky breath in, coughing out a sob. every tear hurt my head more and more, but I couldn't stop. The cold tiles below me now didn't give me any comfort, only resentment.

I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be held in some type of way. I wanted someone to hold me by the face and tell me they loved me unconditionally, even if I was stuck in a body that wasn't mine.

I need somebody to tell me that everything isn't for nothing. That I am smart, that I am okay, that I am worth more than what teachers, parents, and peers thought of me.

The work I produce from my hands- it's all a lie. I've convinced myself every comment was just a pity party. Who'd look at my creations and genuinely think anything good of it? They all had so many flaws which were irredeemable in my eyes. These people- They were my friends, my family- they just had to be being respectful, there was no way they could feel this way towards anything I wrote. It was wrong.

I don't deserve what I get from those works. I don't deserve the support I get. I don't deserve anything. I feel horrible getting it too- wasn't I supposed to feel prideful when my worked was commented on and loved? So why did I feel a stab of pang, why did I feel like I was never good enough to deserve those words?

Could it all trail back to my self-loathing that had already manifested itself within me?

... i don't know.

I don't feel right in this body of mine. It feels broken and unsustained. I look myself in the mirror and I don't believe it's mine. I can't recognize that face- I don't know who that is. I'm told over and over again it's mine, but it's like I can't compute that.

Perhaps that's why I couldn't understand anyone caring about me beyond the thin layer. Perhaps that's why I couldn't accept compliments about literally anything I've ever done.

... but I'm unsure if this is right.

I just wished I was loved, but I fear even then I'll think it's all pity. As I think everything is. Because, in essence,

Who'd give a shit about me?

My eye lids are heavy; even through the glaring lights of the bathroom was sleep slowly over taking me. I'll wake up tomorrow and regret everything I've ever said and done in regard to my mental health. I'll convince myself all over again that I don't need help and I am simply over dramatic. Tomorrow morning, I'll convince myself I am fine, and nothing will be wrong. And then I'll continue on pushing these thoughts, doubts, and self-hatred aside for another night similar to this one.

I place bets on myself occasionally- will this be the night I'm found dead, or will I hate myself for ever thinking I was anything but a fraud and nuisance?