Hurt

Why doesn't it hurt anymore;

I don't know why it doesn't hurt.

The dozens of three inch lines are numb.

The fresh mistakes are turned into nothingness.

I've surpassed the point of feelings,

What can they do at this point?

Make things worse?

That's all they've done,

Fuck everything up?

I don't think I've been clean for more than twenty-five days. 

I try and say that the self loathing happens at most twice a week;

But it's really at least five times a day.

This body of mine is useless and disgusting,

I can't even bear writing this in second person.

I wouldn't want the reader to feel like I'm talking to them about this,

I'm really just trying to get the old me back;

The one that doesn't think of killing themselves twice a day,

The one with scar free skin,

The one with less self-given trauma. 

Sorry.

All I want to do is cry, 

Ball my eyes out into a pillow pet.

But the amount of self hate and sadness that it would take to make me cry like that ten months ago,