It eats her alive—

The guilt.

It’s tearing apart her insides

and spitting out shards of her bitter soul.

She is ashamed of letting it get this far.

She is ashamed of not knowing how to stop it.

She was feeling better; happier; lighter.

She cannot allow this.

She will not allow this.

She tells no one of her secrets;

of who she truly is,

because they will look at her and

see someone unrecognizable.

A total stranger looking back and pleading

for forgiveness she’ll never receive.

So her mind tells her that she is making everything up.

Her mind tells her that she plays a part in her own story.

But she is not an actress—she is punishing herself.

She does not think she deserves to call her traumatic experiences traumatic.

She does not deserve to ask for help

when others are struggling so much more than she is.

She has no right to be here, writing.

She has no reason,

no excuse,

for not being where she is supposed to be.

She does not deserve to be called kind

when her past mistakes were anything but.

She does not deserve to have people

think she is warm-hearted.

She is not a good egg.

She is rotten inside and cracked on the surface

so her spoiled soul is beginning to infect the air.