It's
not glamorous. It isn't what you were
hoping it would be. It's crumpled, stale,
stained bedsheets. It's not showering for a week, and
wearing the same clothes for four days straight. It's not
leaving your bedroom unless you have to. It's eating all
your meals behind closed doors. It's sending :) at the
end of every text to stop them for suspecting. It's
suddenly finding your breath wavering, and having to
gulp down air to stop tears that have no reason to exist
— that have e v e r y reason to exist.
It's lying to your friends over and over.
It's giving up on them. It's giving
up. It's letting go. It's throwing away. It's
dark rooms and dirty floors and a mess that everything gets
lost in. It's 'we haven't seen you for ages'
and 'why do you spend so much time in your room?'.
It's being attacked and attacking, hiding and hunting,
lonely and reclusive. It's hating everything your hands
touch. And God, is it hating your hands. It's
leaving before you have to. It's a future you'll
mould yourself. It's a past you don't want to be a
part of anymore. It's fighting every time you speak.
It's losing your words. It isn't pretty or
thoughtful or quiet or sweet. It is as loud as thunder, as
destructive as a virus, a massacre, a blood donation gone
wrong. It's fighting the hard fight, and
l o s i n g .
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