fromjunia

I know who you are. You’re just like me. Within five minutes of meeting you, I have read you. Weak, scared, so put together. Fragile, resilient, stressed, a god on earth. Intelligent, a failure, a success, powerful. I could hurt you, if I wanted to. I could try to make you feel safe.

Do you know who I am too? Fake, honest, scared, brave, weak, strong, terrified? Can you hurt me? You act so kind. How awful. I know you know me. Stop lying to me. Come for blood already. Give me a reason to fight. Give me a reason to mistrust you. Why do you trust me? The moment I met you I thought of how I could hurt you. I know you did too. Don’t lie to me. Don’t pretend you’re any different. We’re the same. Stop lying!

I smell your blood in the water and it’s driving me insane. You shouldn’t trust me, but you do. I shouldn’t trust you, but I do. We’re both fools.

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Important note: The following is about my anorexia, not an actual person.

How am I supposed to make piece with the bitch? She’s trashing my life. She’s cratered my self-esteem. Harmed my body and my relationships. See her benefit? Appreciate her purpose? Her purpose is to drag me to hell. Compassion, compassion. “Self-compassion.” She doesn’t feel like my self. She feels like an alien. Why should I feel compassion for a demon intent on killing me?

No, I hate her. I want her to die. I want to rip her from my soul and into pathetic little pieces. I want to humiliate her and stomp her into the dirt. I hate her.

Perhaps the only thing I hate more than her is that I like her. I hate that sometimes I even need her. I hate myself for befriending her. The only one more vile than her is me, because a demon has no choice but to be malicious, but I chose to kneel before her.

Compassion. Nobody in this story deserves compassion. Pitiful, sad souls.