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I THOUGHT I WAS DONE
<p>I hate the bags beneath my eyes, the ones that expose every sleepless night I pretend never happened.</p><p><br/></p><p>I hate the scars on my skin.</p><p>I hate the way they remain long after the pain has passed, like my body keeps receipts for every moment I wish I could erase.</p><p><br/></p><p>I hate looking weak.</p><p>I hate the trembling voice, the tired eyes, the softness that gives me away when I would rather look untouchable.</p><p><br/></p><p>I hate crying.</p><p>I hate the way tears betray me, spilling out of a person who has spent so much time convincing everyone that she is fine.</p><p><br/></p><p>I hate being fragile.</p><p>I hate needing people.</p><p>I hate being affected.</p><p>I hate how deeply everything seems to reach me.</p><p><br/></p><p>And somehow, the cruelest part is this:</p><p><br/></p><p>I have become a reflection of everything I hate most.</p><p><br/></p><p>The exhaustion lives beneath my eyes.</p><p>The memories live beneath my skin.</p><p>The weakness lives in my hands.</p><p>The sadness lives behind my silence.</p><p>The tears live just beneath the surface, waiting for the smallest crack.</p><p><br/></p><p>I spent so long trying to destroy every vulnerable part of myself that I forgot those parts were still me.</p><p><br/></p><p>So now I look in the mirror and see everything I tried to hide.</p><p><br/></p><p>Not beautiful.</p><p>Not broken.</p><p>Not strong.</p><p><br/></p><p>Just human.</p><p><br/></p><p>And maybe that’s what I hate most.</p><p><br/></p><p>That no matter how hard I try to become cold, life keeps leaving evidence that I once cared.</p><p>That no matter how carefully I hide my pain, my body remembers.</p><p>That no matter how many times I swear I will never cry again, there is still a part of me soft enough to hurt.</p><p><br/></p><p>I am a collection of things I wish I could erase.</p><p><br/></p><p>And every morning, when I look into the mirror, I am forced to meet the girl I have spent years trying not to become.</p>
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