the sorrow that consumes me

I say I force myself to fit in, I try to convince myself that I do, but I know without a doubt that I don't even try. I isolate myself constantly, abandoning myself and wearing down those who make an effort for me. My days become a constant martyrdom; a physical and mental torture that doesn't let up for a second. I allow myself small gifts, or so I think, to make it easier for me to keep breathing. I also know, although I won't admit it, that what I allow myself doesn't benefit me at all, but rather contributes to my demise. My supposed gifts are razor blades wrapped in pink paper. I disguise the painful as beautiful, even though I'm aware of it, to try to hide the pain I inflict on myself. I'd be ashamed to admit how cowardly I am; disguising the torture I cause myself, instead of admitting it and stopping it. People think it's easier to talk, but they've never been in my situation; addicted to the pain that has grown with me. The pain that has always been with me.