I am not who you think I am.
I am not the girl who smiles with ease,
laughs vivaciously
or jokes charismatically with the neighbors.
No, I am the lonely girl laying quietly on the floor.
I can tell you about her
because I can see who she really is when I look into the mirror.
Her face is limp and pale, her mouth is down and quiet
and her eyes tell the longest, darkest story
of a sad wish for death.
The eyes are brown and deep,
but the eyelids are barely open to them.
I can see loss and trauma,
heartbreak and pain
but the most evident out of all negative reflections
is self destruction
again and again and again and again.
Until self destruction has became an addiction,
self destruction as an addiction became a present tense
a constant, a normality, a habit, a way of life
and a death sentence.

A death sentence that I willingly have accepted,
seeked out, inquired upon, wandered towards,
popped, puked, starved, restricted, ran, thrown, scraped,
until being scared of dying was no longer scary
and that is scary in itself.
This is not a way of living,
I no longer know how to live.
Knowing how to live died after all I lived for died
after that plane crashed, after my dreams were burned and shred
again and again and again and again.
Look into my eyes. Do you now see that I am not who you thought I was?

Because I can play the person that I want to be,
the alive, breathing, laughing, smiling, working, playing Jenny
but in reality, in truth, from all honesty of my being
I am not living at all. I am the girl lashing, scratching,
violently crying on the floor.
And I need help. I can’t do this anymore
I don’t want to want to die anymore.