worse than dead

Dear Teddy,


I’m sorry if I ever keep you awake at night. Crying is hard to execute in a quiet manner.

I’m sorry that you have to listen to my gasps masked by the pillow that will never let me suffocate. I’m sorry that you have to feel my wet tears splatter into a sea of deep emotions that I never express in words. I’m sorry that you feel the pounding of my fists onto the bed, springing my next pound with a head start motion. I’m sorry that my eyes look more blank than yours, staring into space and wondering what it would be like to not exist, for others in my life to die. And I look at your smile, and I wonder if it’s possible to be happy, or if maybe you just pretend to be happy when you’re around other people, just like me.

I look at you and wonder if it's possible to be so beautiful on the outside, and yet

so fucking hollow,


empty,
on the inside.

I touch your soft fur and cringe at the thought that no body will ever want to touch me, that no body will ever want to love me.

I wonder if other teddy bears on on peoples beds experience the same thing; awkwardly watching an unloved teenager crying a river, not because she is mad at other people, but because she can't stand herself; because she can't stand the sight of herself in the mirror because her body and clothing style and make up expresses something different than what's on the inside; she can't stand the thought that no body cares about who she is, internally, they never look to see; and the more they pay attention to unsymmetrical eye shadow, the less they care about the thoughts behind those gorgeous green eyes; she feels so alone, that she wishes she didn't exist, because she already feels worse than dead.

I'm so sorry that you have to watch this every night. I don't know who to turn to to ask for help, so it's just easier to to not ask for help at all.



-from
the girl who hates that you love to stay by my side