[doubt, insecurities, jealousy, self-deprecating.] there's always room. always room for you, my loves. but don't forget, [they're all] attached at [my] hip, a tumor at birth, [but they] failed to remove it; [instead they] nourished it [by maintaining] an unhealthy environment. [somehow i'm responsible for the] inexpressive inexplicable consequences that [those fostered parasites brought upon me.]
those stretch marks look like scars, and vice versa. i still cannot look at them for too long. they'll impress on my vision so i can see them even behind my eyelids, except they're younger, fresher, redder.

despite all my flaws, i still want someone to bear witness to it all. [at them, not you.] i can do without your neat little boxes, your dust pans and chlorox, trying to scrub away all the impurities, inside and without a second thought.

should i try to be perfect for you because i appreciate your presence? should i allow myself to be vulnerable? i'm afraid you'll turn me away, or [turn your back] because you cannot hold a flame to what i've been through. nor can i hold one to you. we'll size up, [compare burn marks, stab wounds.] it's a competition, of who deserves more sympathy.

my thoughts are like chismis, gossiping about situations that don't exist.

i've been afraid of crying. or, the fear [of being vulnerable] has been forced down my throat so i can only choke down my own words, [swallow them as to not throw up/dump my turmoil, though it's acidic and chopping away at my stomach lining. yet you still tell me there's a silver lining. ha.]

recently, i squeeze my own throat as a kink, but this time i mean to cause harm. several times, i woke up with marks. [no,] twice, try to hide it behind the curtains of my hair, framing my face so it also covers the corners of my eyes. i hope they don't notice how red they've become. [i've yet to overwhelm myself enough to pass out. all i can do now is feel pathetic while in the coffin of my bed frame.]

i'm so used to feeling lost in mine, that the thing i'm the most afraid of is losing your mind.

i'm over here licking my own wounds that i keep prying open with nitpicked words that rattle around my ears, [yet] i want you to stitch it closed. or at least carefully remove those toxins with whatever needles or pliers you have, even if it hurts more than i let on, [even if i fear the IV drip; oh, the crook of my elbow pricks just thinking of it.] i need attention. [critically now, yours.] i'll show you everything. i'll never know when to stop. [i'm sorry i get lost in my own pain. i revel in it sometimes, i feel like i deserve it, but don't at the same time.]