Alone and Lonely

I have problems. Maybe normal problems that people face every day, or maybe they're problems in my head. Things that only I go through. Things that made me close myself off and hide. I hid for a long time, pushed everyone away because I was afraid of loving again. Or maybe it was afraid of loving and not being loved back. I don't know, honestly. But I hid from everyone, I stopped writing and I tortured myself by doing so.

I don't have that problem anymore. I still have urges. I still want to hurt myself in the worst ways possible. Sometimes, I want to give myself something and rip it away from myself just so I can feel a hole grow in my chest where the love for this thing festered. Then again, somedays, there is nothing to give—nothing to write. I feel like all of the pain may have exhausted the love out of me and the only thing I can give myself is the broken version of love.

So that was my problem. I closed myself off and let no one in. Now, I feel like my problem is the opposite. Like no matter how wide the door frame is, there is no one to let in. No one wants to come in. Maybe I did this to myself, after all, I made myself the way I am. Alone and lonely.