Don't tell me how I'm suppose to self destruct

Who are you
To tell me
My cuts
My scars
Aren't deep enough?
I'm sorry that I
Didn't dig deep
Down into my skin
And no longer have to wonder
What fat looks like
What muscle looks like
Flexing against the point
Of a razor.
Who are you
To tell me
My stomach
My thighs
Aren't skinny enough
to be considered
"anorexic?"
I'm sorry
That sometimes
I choose to eat
A cup of noodle
Instead of starving
For the whole week
Have you ever thought
That maybe
My parents actually give a fuck
And make me eat sometimes?
Who are you
To tell me
I'm not suicidal
I'm not depressed
Because I haven't tried
To kill myself,
yet?
I'm sorry
That I was busy
Or stuck at a party
Or at work
On the day
I planned to jump
In front of a train.
Screw you
To tell me
My problems
Aren't bad enough.
I'm sorry
I don't live up
To your
Pathetic
Horrid
Standards
On what "emos"
"Anorexics"
"Attention seekers"
do.