I am from the dry skin I peel from my lips,

               the chunks of hair I pull from my scalp (am I disgusting?).

               Absentmindedly Self-destructive.

I am from the stuffed animals I hold at night,

               the thumb I find wandering towards my mouth as I try to find sleep (will I grow up?).

               Shamefully Childish.

I am from the scars I’ve left on my skin,

               the bloody tissue hidden away in my bedside drawer (am I hopeless?).

               Miserably Empty.

I am from the voice in my mind telling me I’m worthless,

               the stifled sobs at night, trying not to wake my parents (will I disappoint them?).

               Selfishly Reclusive.

I am from the obsessive thoughts that constantly race through my head,

               the guilt of creating a thought that awful (am I a bad person?).

               Terrifyingly Vivid.

I am from the pills I take to alter my broken mind,

               the therapists and counselors who try to help (will I get better?).

               Worryingly Burdensome.