🌹🌹🖤 “this too, shall pass”

:)

frustration.

I look at this wall. I touch this wall. I punch this wall. This wall has imprints of my fists in it. There's blood on this wall. But I keep punching this wall. Even though my hands are bloody and bruised up from the wall. This wall will stop at nothing to keep itself standing. I'm bored with this wall. I turn to the mirror. I don't like what I see. I strike myself in my face like I did to the wall. I strike myself numerous times until I feel the warm sensation of blood run from my nostrils and over my lips. Until my eyes are as bloody and bruised likewise my hands. I look at the mirror and stare at my reflection to see my current state. I feel my eyes begin to swell will tears that won't exit the ducts. I feel sense of disgust with myself. And I stare down at my hands. If hands could do this much destruction, then why were we born with them. It's about how you use them and the way you use them. I don't deserve my hands. God should have gave them to someone who needed them. I look back at the mirror and see my reflection. After a long stare at my reflection, I strike the mirror and it shatters from the force of my punch. I bury my bloody face into my bloody hands and I weep and weep and weep. "What have I done, who am I, what am I..." I hesitantly whisper to myself. "You are nothing," my thoughts whisper back. I whisper silently to myself again, "I am nothing."