I’m not a good person.
I know most people are not, but the bad consumes me and I let it. I have very little good in me regardless what anyone says. No one knows me the way I do, its something you cannot fight me on. It’s not something I believe, its something I know.
I’m trying to be a better person, especially to myself and to my parents, but I don’t know how to be good to both. I’m selfish enough to pick myself over everyone else, to pick my moments desires without giving a thought to others. I realised that I cause a lot of pain to the people around me, my family and the people around me.
That’s what makes me bad, I’m aware I cause pain to so many yet I do nothing to stop it. I don’t know how to apart from not letting it begin in the first place, yet I let it begin. I let things spiral out of control until it is inevitable that pain is caused. Yet I don’t have a reason for letting it begin apart from my own selfishness.
I’m a bad person.
Have you ever been suffocated?
You start shoving, scratching and screaming to get out, but you don’t get anywhere because it just gets worse. You get pressed down further, and then one day you snap and all that shoving, scratching and screaming goes to waste.
You die. Inside.
Then everything becomes mellow, your look on life completely changes and you’re no longer living, you’re just existing.
I don’t want to just exist, I want to live. That’s why I’ll keep fighting until the day I break and, the day I break will be the day I die. I refuse to break, because I want to live and living means to fall over, get up, learn and repeat. I refuse to spend the rest of my life wallowing, regretting, avoiding like a coward because I don’t want to face up to my fears and problems.
As long as my heart beats, I’ll keep living.
The beast inside feeds off anger, insecurities and pain. When I feed it, it feels heavy, like it’s about to rip my chest and pounce out. When I starve it, it cowers away and stays silent until the next time because it knows. It knows that it will get fed one day, whether it be in two hours, a week or a month. It slowly waits inside, knowing. Smirking.
That’s why I write, I write because the screaming in my chest quietens down after I pour it onto a page. Instead of letting my heart bleed, I bleed ink onto a page. Little by little, I let out what is supposed to be kept inside to calm the beast inside. To tame it. Because if it gets too much to handle, it means the beast has won, I’m left in pieces and I have to slowly piece myself together again. Alone.
Because it is my battle, and mine alone.