Self Destruction

Some days are spent looking at my reflection in the mirror trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. When I see my scars, bruises and scabbing wounds, I know that I don’t recognize myself anymore. When I see the unkempt hair and bloodshot eyes, I know that I am no longer me. 

And not knowing who I am and where I’m headed to, is the scariest and most frightening thought to me. More than anything else I’ve had to deal with as a result of my depression. 

This is a poem I wrote after a particularly rough night. 

My hair is in my face, And my heart’s beating fast, My pajamas stick to my skin, And my breath smells of smoke.

I can still feel the Chardonnay, Rushing through my blood, And my mind a fuzzy ball, Of lint, attracting more dust.

My skin’s a bloody battlefield, But you wouldn’t understand, My body isn’t mine, Yet I don’t know whose it is.

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Author: Gittel

Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his own personality to the world he lives in. -Guitar-Watercolors-Poetry-Journaling-Blogging-Teddy Bear Petting-

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