Status: Currently on pause for the lack of ideas
Trying to Feel Perfect
She's Staring At Me From a Magazine
I am currently standing in my bathroom in just my underwear staring at the girl in the mirror. I don't like what I see. He said that the pressure from all the magazines has gone to my head, but I tell him he's wrong. I've locked the bathroom door so he cannot witness what I am about to do. He is my boyfriend, my boyfriend known as Pete Wentz and I am his 'pitiful' girlfriend as they say and when I say they I mean the media. Always writing negative things about me.
I admit that I used to do drugs. I mean we all need to escape ever now and then from that thing in the back of our minds that is always trying to put us down. Sometimes it wins, sometimes it loses. But in my case it usually wins. I used to love the feeling I got after I had drawn a line of crack; the self-confidence and feeling like I was on top of the world. Now all I feel is a complete and utter wreck. I don't know why my boyfriend still puts up with me after 4 years, well he is hardly here anyway because of his constant touring and promoting the new Fall Out Boy album - Infinity On High. I always laughed at the album titled because it reminded me of myself but he didn't find it funny.
His escape is touring, my escape is drugs.
Now kneeling down in front of the toilet, with the magazine open and a picture of a famous model right by my side so I can concentrate on what I want to meet. I feel hot tears run down my face, racing each other down to my chin. I never took off my makeup from last night so I know I'll look like a right mess with black-streaked stained cheeks, but nobody can see me apart from that model staring at me from the magazine.
I hate vomiting, I really do - but what I hate more is making myself vomit. He always tells me I'm beautiful, that I'm perfect to him and that I don't need to change. His words just feel empty to me.
After the intense vomiting, I am standing opposite the mirror yet again. Something glistening has caught my eye by the bathroom window sill and I am instantly drawn to it. I pick up the sharp cool blade and start to make strong patterns across my forearms. I instantly get a kick from the acute pain I am feeling. I scrawl the word 'FAT' across my left thigh and soon after I am done. I gaze into the mirror, impressed with my 'artwork' that more tears start to descend from my eyes. I pray that he won't find out what I have done so I have cleaned up all the evidence and hidden my silver friend in a small rattan box for next time.
I admit that I used to do drugs. I mean we all need to escape ever now and then from that thing in the back of our minds that is always trying to put us down. Sometimes it wins, sometimes it loses. But in my case it usually wins. I used to love the feeling I got after I had drawn a line of crack; the self-confidence and feeling like I was on top of the world. Now all I feel is a complete and utter wreck. I don't know why my boyfriend still puts up with me after 4 years, well he is hardly here anyway because of his constant touring and promoting the new Fall Out Boy album - Infinity On High. I always laughed at the album titled because it reminded me of myself but he didn't find it funny.
His escape is touring, my escape is drugs.
Now kneeling down in front of the toilet, with the magazine open and a picture of a famous model right by my side so I can concentrate on what I want to meet. I feel hot tears run down my face, racing each other down to my chin. I never took off my makeup from last night so I know I'll look like a right mess with black-streaked stained cheeks, but nobody can see me apart from that model staring at me from the magazine.
I hate vomiting, I really do - but what I hate more is making myself vomit. He always tells me I'm beautiful, that I'm perfect to him and that I don't need to change. His words just feel empty to me.
After the intense vomiting, I am standing opposite the mirror yet again. Something glistening has caught my eye by the bathroom window sill and I am instantly drawn to it. I pick up the sharp cool blade and start to make strong patterns across my forearms. I instantly get a kick from the acute pain I am feeling. I scrawl the word 'FAT' across my left thigh and soon after I am done. I gaze into the mirror, impressed with my 'artwork' that more tears start to descend from my eyes. I pray that he won't find out what I have done so I have cleaned up all the evidence and hidden my silver friend in a small rattan box for next time.
♠ ♠ ♠
Dyslexia is a bitch.