Sigh

The list of what I use to be, isn't too far off from what I feel like now. And I'm not sure what my self worth is and this isn't me spilling my guts. I'm just using that metaphorical scalpel to cut from my chin down to my navel. The scarred navel, the scarred groin, the scarred torso that holds so much of me. Unraveling inside of me is this fear. A fear I haven't seen or felt in years. It's like all these different yarn stings rolled into one and then just tightening and moving inside of me. It's when I'm around everyone or anyone else that I feel that sickening almost-cotton-like feeling and it twirls around at the back of my teeth. I become so afraid of what I am or what I'm doing. Because I have no idea what any of it means. I mean, with my headphones in I don't have to hear you. I don't have to think about you because all I feel is the bass that reminds me of a heart beat and it reminds me of being a child with my head on my mother's chest as she would pet me and keep me warm on nights like this where I'm pulling the covers tighter and tighter yet somehow it just feels like it's getting colder. As long as we're honest, I'm fucking terrified. When I look in the mirror I see what no one else could see because they aren't me. How am I suppose to know what's real and what's not when the whole world is inside of my head? When I look in the mirror, I see this thing. This thing that has been sewn together has been glued together from bits and pieces of what...I think.. is a past. All this ink in my skin and disgusting scars on my body inside and out that resemble who I was once. I can cross my arms any way I want but at the end of the night it's my body I touch wishing it was someone else, thinking that I deserve someone else. Hoping that...there is someone else out there. But all I can do is breathe. 1. 2. 3.... it is what it is. Wanna hear a fuckin joke? Tell God your plans. Because God, has it in for you. God is working his little magic around you day and night testing you. Pulling strings from behind that back drop and laughing at your every decision. And I? I can't keep doing this. I can't keep convincing myself that these things are happening. I can't keep telling myself that he's outside my door and he's raising his fist to knock. So when I come running to my room and peel my clothes off my montage of a body, and I sink into myself in my boxer briefs, I'll choose to kiss my bear good night and not give into another urge to puke over what I planned on happening that didn't.