Why did I feel that my presence was an abomination
and that a cut on my wrist should be my only physical sensation?
That at the drop of blood all my anguish would disappear,
but at the same time that knife was all that I would adhere.
Why did I feel trapped inside my own mistakes?
Thinking as though every bit of empathy someone might say they had for me was fake.
Why was I so confused and felt like I couldn't escape?
Did I feel like being rescued was way too late?
I was afraid of communication out of fear of being judged.
I thought my opportunities to make it were wiped away, even smudged.
Why did my complications, trials, and tribulations direct me to immediate care?
Wasn't hospital after hospital and psychologist after psychologist enough to bare?
I deserved an applaud.
For the world's best facade.
Not an individual I came across could reveal my hidden identity.
For who I was was not someone I wanted the world to see.
Your impulsive, your crazy, and your bipolar is all I ever heard!
But was that true, though I thought it was absurd?
Why was it so difficult to deal with change?
Was consuming something new out of my range?
I know it hasn't just begun, though I know it's not finished yet.
I just desire for things to continue to get better
and that I won't be bombarded with all this shame and regret.