So Many Means Of Self-destruction, So Little

I Do Not Remember Very Many Things From The Inside Out. I Do Not Remember What It Felt Like To Touch Things, Or How Bathwater Traveled Over My Skin. I Did Not Like To Be Touched, But It Was A Strange Dislike. I Did Not Like To Be Touched Because I Craved It Too Much. I Wanted To Be Held Very Tight So I Would Not Break. Even Now, When People Lean Down To Touch Me, Or Hug Me, Or Put A Hand On My Shoulder, I Hold My Breath. I Turn My Face. I Want To Cry.

In Truth, You Like The Pain. You Like It Because You Believe You Deserve It.

I'm A Driven Perfectionist, Very Self-critical.

I Began To Measure Things In Absence Instead Of Presence.

So Many Means Of Self-destruction, So Little Time.