I couldn’t get out of bed today.
I lay frozen with regrets and wrapped blankets of shame around my ugly body.
I buried my head in my pillow to tried to shut out the chilled tongues whispering mantras of self-loathing in my ears.
And not a bit of it worked.
My insecurity presented itself in cool tears that froze on my cheeks, silver and shiny like stretchmarks.
Obsessive fears and worries spun around my mind like a poltergeist, throwing my thoughts into utter disarray.
I’m frozen with fear. Fear of other people; fear of my own stupid mouth, and all the stupid, obnoxious things it says when I’m not listening, and then all the terrible insecure, pathetic, ridiculous apologies it feels the need to make, further humiliating and embarrassing me.
And so I’m frozen, because I’m terrified of everything I do; of everything I am.
I can’t get out of bed, because it’s too cold out there, and I can barely keep warm here as it is.
I do this to myself.
I open the window at night to let the cold in, and still my heart, and make me shudder and shiver.
And each frosty exhalation reminds me, with every single breath, just how much I hate myself.