I have lived a lot of the “best years of my life” hating myself.
I have lived a lot of the “best years of my life” not living… but existing.
I have lived a lot of the “best years of my life” living for other people.

I’ve attended many a “party of the year” waiting for the clock to strike an hour which would be acceptable for me to leave without drawing too much attention to myself.

I’ve replied many times with “Im good, how are you?” after crying myself into a huge combustion of emotions.

I’m only twenty-two, yet I find myself often saying “I need a drink”

Wearing long sleeves in the summer to cover up the cuts,
looking down at the ground to cover up the tears,
coughing to cover up the cries,
smiling to cover up the lies…

I’ve done it all.
I know every excuse,
I’ve worn every disguise.

I don’t see why I have to be twelve feet under in order to rest in peace.
Why do people find kind things to say or recall fond memories of me have to wait until I am no longer here to grow from them?
To enjoy them.
To live for them.

I refuse to settle for death to achieve peace.

Peace of mind.

Peace of self.


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