My Leathery Skin

It’s difficult to write about yourself when the main reason you write is to get away from yourself. When you are so desperate to feel good or happy, or like the old you. When nothing, I mean nothing seems to be giving you a sense of satisfaction, a simple sense of accomplishment. It seems so simple but so hard to achieve. That’s when you write.That's when you write to keep your sanity. It seems .. little things keep getting more challenging to manage. When I wake up in the morning my skin looks different. I look at my skin that I have had my whole life and it looks leathery and abnormal. I have gotten so used to my veins being so apparent that the sight of it doesn't even scare me anymore. It used to scare me, but now I've realized that it soon will disappear. Like it was never even there, no sign of ripped or split skin. My veins are barely noticeable. As soon as someone else looks at me, even if they aren't necessarily looking at my skin directly, my visions flee immediately. I believe it is the real me transforming into someone more appealing to the human eye. I believe that the real me is hideous. Not physically - that somehow all my lies, secrets and guilt combine into one to form a body that matches my soul. And when someone looks at me, I show them how I want to be seen. Not who I truly am. There are feelings and baggage inside me that I will never show anybody. Sometimes I am even too afraid to show myself. I believe that I might be going crazy and that I am too far gone to be saved.

I smile all winter

I smile all summer

all spring, all fall

I keep up with the little talk

And still manage to hold conversation

Still act interested in things that don't interest me anymore

I can still manage to laugh

So is it worth it

Am I really ready right now

You don’t look sad

So you must not be sad

Right .

Everybody thinks they know you so well.

You're really going to tell me that you didn’t know?

How?

How could you look into my eyes and not see me begging for help on the inside.

Because I never said it, Right?

And if I was really depressed I would’ve told someone for attention.

Right?

No.

Did you forget about the doors?

The doors that close at the end of day?

I haven’t.

Because all winter

All summer

All spring

And all fall

Every fake smile would kill me a little more inside.

Until it stopped

Until I stopped it

I had to, they were begging me.