I am the doctor and the patient, self-diagnosing every enigma I contain. The more I uncover the less I understand.
I trust no one. Ultimately, I know I’m alone as I’ve always been.
I’ve learned the hard way that lovers cannot replace what you weren’t given as a child and heartbreak is only a reflection of what scarred an infant mind.
People are selfish and relationships require discipline I don’t possess. And yet I yearn for that constant companionship. Emotionally I feel vacant.
I’m angry and tired, I feel that my story is unjust and those responsible should be punished.
You say I’m cold but you don’t ask how I got this way.
Coldness isn’t running through the veins of a newborn, no.
Monsters are not born they are made, what makes me any different?
I do love and I do feel but I can’t give comfort and sympathy because I learned that pain and suffering is something only talked about in hushed voices behind locked doors. It’s something that no one will hold your hand through and if they say they will they’re lying because whatever you feel and whatever you go through doesn’t matter, after all, someone has it worse, right?
You made pain a competition, you belittled me for my emotions because no one could hurt like you hurt.
You want my sympathy, you want my comfort but every time I took cold metal to my skin I was pathetic, weak, a joke.
You say I’m cold but that infant you held in your arms was full of love and warmth.
I tried so fucking hard to calm you, to soothe your hurt but it’s always the same and I’m always the bitch.
I won’t feel sorry for you anymore.
You were supposed to be there for me but I was always there for you. I went through my darkest times with no guidance and no love. I went to hell and back without you even noticing my absence or my scars.
I laid bloody and alone, my life ebbing away and where were you?
Did you enjoy holding onto that bottle and drowning the voices in your head?
No one was there to save me and no one held me close. They couldn’t, even if they tried. My sense of trust and love is so distorted and shattered I wouldn’t know a knife from a rose.
Next time cut deeper so you bleed out and successfully die, bitch
Yes I’m cold.

You made me this way.
So when you wonder why my arms are not there for your shaking body it’s because love and loyalty is a two way street.
You forged me in pain and suffering so now that’s all I know, but it made me strong, strong enough to stop the bleeding when you lay drunk, crying and oblivious to anyone’s story but your own.

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