The aftermath of a childlike adult teenager.

“here lays my debauched flesh in a compost of carcasses and corpses in likeliness, cradled by fairytales piling up in child-mocking wonder of putrescence, reeking of leaking girlhood oozing out my putrid skin, blood that seeps like maggot-ridden gore, over molding pages of callow fallacy, like a sex-linked inheritance, worms feast as if my body were a delicacy, as though my hunger were a legacy, the only monument erected for me.”

knowing that my entire identity has built upon the foundation of being an extension of my abusers' own needs, traumas, and emotions is absolutely ruinous and has completely changed my perspective on what layer of my identity truly deserves to be loved. i cannot change—it is as simple as that. i am a product of everything that has been forcefully stitched onto me that its simply impossible to be untangled. you can strip me off everything ive stitched onto myself and let my shallowness lay bare before you—my horribly built individuality made by placing scraps, bricks, and legos of everyone necessary and unnecessary. in the end, ultimately, ive only tightened it's hold. my body does not belong to me, it is an inhabitant of everyone who has tried to own it, and so shards of each visit have come to realize their own existence too.

there was no child to begin with nor a teenager that existed, there's no guarantee of an adult taking form either. it was born with the purpose of being a vessel to serve, not a being to raise.

my consciousness has a surface over surface, there is no guarantee to a 'real me' when i can't consider all my traumas and emotions to be truly mine—all of them are begging for a chance to feel this and that next and i can't handle being more than just one person in this body—i would cease to exist under the mercy of all these heavy feelings. i would cry until my tears would flood my room and swallow me into it, i would rage until i lose sight of my path and cause my own untimely death, i would grieve until my heart refuses to feel, and the soil would hit my coffin lesser than my feelings have.

and it would be much worse than all the pain i have ever received in this small lifetime.