a teeny tiny ranty thingy

I'm a mess.

From my dead and damaged hair on my head,
To the faded scars on my waist.

I am a mess.

From the anxiety preventing me from saying what I desperately need to,
To the depression telling me that no one cares, even though I desperately cling to the thought that they do.

Why am I like this?

I oversleep or not at all.
I eat too much or nothing whatsoever.

I let all my emotions escape me and I tell everything to random strangers who barely know my name,
Or I keep it all contained, locked within a cage.

I want to be better,
I am getting better.

I'm getting better by lying to myself.
Telling myself that I'm fine and its fine when I know that's only making it worse.

But its not a lie, right?
I mean I have been happier since I've started telling myself positive things,
It's not fake is it?

No,no,no
I can't go there, it an endless tunnel I don't want to go down.