Beautifully tragic.

Maggie. 20. Artist. Bitch. Nice to meet you.

I see my reflection in the mirror, but I have to stop and ask myself, “Who is that girl? Do I know her? Is she the same she was last week, month, last year?” Every time I answer the question it’s a stern “no.” Every time I see myself, I question what I’m doing, I judge myself so harshly that It takes less than a second for me to go from ‘fine’ to ‘fucked’. I wish I could be one of those people who understands things like forgiveness and understanding. I am not. I don’t know if it was coded into my DNA to be forever pissed off or if I chose this, but I really wish I could get another draw at one of the two. “Well, just change Maggie.” That is a lot easier said than done in a mind like mine, I can’t just wake up with a fresh page everyday. My father used to be a book binder at one of the businesses here in town, whenever a book wouldn’t get a good binding or the spine would be messed up they would throw it in the garbage, I am one of those books. My whole story has been written, revised a couple of times I’m assuming, but written and given up on. My author does not like me, and doesn’t understand me any more than I understand myself. Leaving me to spew out words before they even formulate in my head. Call me ignorant. I am. Call me stupid, well that shoe fits too. 
Ever have something happen in life that completely makes you question every single thought, belief, and dream you’ve ever had? See a person you haven’t seen in a long time, be reminded of what you used to aspire. That’s how I feel every time I look in the mirror. I want to remember what it felt like to look in the mirror and just continue on with the day, and I can’t. When I say I can’t, I am being deadly serious. I can’t. I have tried so hard. I just feel so stuck. I am so paralyzed in my head that I can’t. 

I fucking hate myself.


I romanticized you

to the point where

the knives you

into my skin

began to look

 Cupid’s arrows.

(Source: acupofkeen, via onehundredrosebuds)


Departure of the Witches, 1878 by Luis Ricardo Falero.

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