Plath said "There is a certain clinical satisfication in seeing just how bad things can get" and Hodson said "Suffering feels religious if you do it right". I find comfort in pain, realising that that is inherently sick.
I don't remember who said it but it goes "The desire to be sicker, to prove that you are sick, itself is indicative of sickness. A well person doesn't desire to be sick." In a new turn of events it appears I am the problem. It appears this isn't poetry. This is self-neglect.
I believe it was Rimbaud who said "I looked at the disorder of my mind as sacred. Disaster was my god." Over and over I come to the realisation that again and again I've put myself here. I really thought people would start caring about me. The ugly routine of self destruction which is in fact beautiful in its monstrous ugliness is my favorite part of self care, allowing myself to wallow, to be dissected, to have some kind of alchemy performed on me. Suffering feels religious because religion has an obsession with suffering.
Relapsing, being under the hurtful kind of influence of drugs, self-sabotaging, consuming, throwing up, anything that brings me closer to death but never makes me quite dead. I live trough tragity and through feeding pain and it is called addiction. To be enslaved by the pain I put myself in. To be both slave and enslaver. To be both god and girl. To be both devil and sinner.
On the scenic route of my path of self destruction it must be said that I am no Icarus. If diabolic or miserable, I am the shadow of a person until I decide to be whole again.
(i know this isn't a poem but i just had to get it out x)
