Dear Santa, I wish

“you’ll get better”, they said. I thought I was healing, I thought the scars were fading, I thought I’d found hope but here I am crying till I get headaches; at least my chest feels lighter. Pain is now pleasure. The pain of losing myself excites me. I can’t live life again. Something in me is dead. A very familiar feeling but this is different- this time there’s no hope; it’s as if I’m screaming in a vacuum. I barely sleep now. I think about a lot yet nothing.

I’m tired of being the weaker one, the one who cries at the slightest thing. I hate the void I feel within, but I can’t help it.

I wish people could hear my screams and wails for help. I wish people could see the tears I pour out. I hate the thought of living the life I imagine. I hate the thought of me wishing to be a different person.

I wish I was able to pour out my feelings to actual people and not books. I wish I understood myself. I wish people could understand my inability to voice out my emotions. I wish people could feel the way I feel. I wish I wasn’t scared of sharing my problems with people because they’d laugh. I wish I wouldn’t cry anytime I wrote about myself. I wish there was a better way of expressing myself. I wish I didn’t wish to be a different person.

I wish words weren’t delicate to me; I wish they didn’t make me vulnerable.