The Wicked Things

Whenever I go outside of the house (which is rare nowadays), I never fail to encounter at least one person that makes me hate myself. It can be the same person as last week or an entirely new one. Girl or boy. Any race. Any age. Any background. Any, well, anything. And it pains me to the point where I fear that first step outside of my door. But here's the thing. They don't know that they cause me to feel this way. In fact, they rarely ever know me. So they could be running errands on a bright afternoon, their clothing choice for the day that of a simple t-shirt and sweats, and never say a word to or actually look at me, but I'll immediately feel jealous that they can go outside of their home that way and not feel an inch of, well, shame. I use this word lightly, of course, to display my true emotions, those being the cause of lacking any and all self-confidence. Most people would try to say that it's all in how you see yourself, but what if I see myself in a negative light? What if I, a sixteen year old teenager with hopes and dreams and only one best friend that I can share everything with, see nothing worth praising? What if I go home from school and cry because I feel as though I am inadequate in the eyes of all who lay theirs upon me? I walk with my head held down, eyes narrowed on to the path I physically am taking, proudly enough that I find the need to mutilate my skin as a sort of punishment for my natural worthlessness and a way of receiving endorphins that balance out the crazy mess I call my Amigdala. Standing short in the crowd (though I'm 5'10"), I wear a fake smile that screams ferociously "HELP ME!" and dine on my shortcomings in life. The ties severed are the ones that were never knotted in the first place, leaving others unaware of my current predicament. I speak too much about words that mean nothing to the twins in my head, each bickering with the other over what unthought statement to make next. I don't have an angel and a devil on my shoulders; instead, I am shrouded by clouds of self-hate and no eminent chance for retribution. Yet, through it all I tell myself, "I love you."