Emaciated

Sometimes im not sure why i am the way i am and why i have to be this way. I live on, barely. I live on the touch of my pulse that I rub my pale, fingers over on my skeletal like neck. I’m not really sure how to really live, because honestly I’m not really living, I’m living to die.
I’m bent over the rusty toilet, that sits in the middle of my outdated trailer park that I live in. My fingers barrelling into my asophagus, as I regurgitate what I just so called “ate.” It goes on for quite a while, just me being me. Anorexic, depressed, anxious, insecure, and suicidal. I question myself why I do this, and why my mind decides it’s okay. It’s not like I want to have my mind win this game of a simulation that we all live in, I want myself to win. Yet, there’s some kind of comfort when I’m bent over the toilet, my back bones rubbing against my loose clothing. A comfort that tries to lead you in, before it goes out to get you. What does it do when it gets you? It hurts you, and somehow it seemed like that was the last thing that would happen at the time. The question is why does it seem that way?

Notes

just yeah lmao