I once fell in love with a boy who understood the depth of which I cared for him, yet he never reciprocated. He was weaning himself off of Adderall, which he had taken for the most of his short life, and here I was, trying to love a broken human being while being broken myself. And it ended in a maelstrom of hurt and shattered imagery that we had built up of each other, refusing to see the flaws that were deeply ingrained in our character, hiding away our honest presumptions, failing to disclose our deepest, esoteric enigmas.
We fell apart.
I’m tired of feeling like I’m fucking crazy
I’m tired of driving ‘til I see stars in my eyes
It’s all I’ve got to keep myself sane, baby
So I just ride, I just ride
why do i even try to compete with all of the other people that exist in my life, that function as separate beings from myself, that are more of individuals than I could ever be?
darwin’s theory of evolution leaves me floundering behind the rest. i cannot evolve to save myeslf as everyone moves forward and as i sit here, unable to adapt to any new setting or situation.
i am a dying breed, the last of my kind. i cannot change. i cannot survive. i will not survive. i will not live. i will die at my own hands.
i am sitting here, waiting for my salvation that i know will never come. though the final blow shall come from myself, i am already stumbling.
i am balanced precariously on the brink of sanity and insanity, each teetering over the edge.
i am falling.
oh god i’m crying such a horribly large amount right now and i don’t like crying and i don’t want to cry
A little excerpt from a piece that I wrote:
Here I was, in love with an optimist who knew how to live while I did not, who wanted to live while I did not. Yet I could see, now, the thriving life that he embodied, that so many people desired. I began to pray for it, and I could feel that desperate want feeding into my soul. And I attached myself, entwined myself more deeply into him.
And here I am once again, looking to see if I can’t overdose on my Abilify and Lunesta and end this miserable existence. It’s so disheartening, to have come so far, to have recovered so much, only to fall back into that old cycle again. I crave for the cold metal blades’ kisses that are harsh and passionate, so rough that it tears open my skin and allows the blood to well to its surface.
I want to hide away from everything. I don’t want this anymore.
Mumford & Sons tells me that I am walking away from all the fears and faults that I’ve left behind. But here I am now, feeling them creep up on me, crawling through me and over me, engulfing my straggling mind as it attempts to outrun the past. And here I am, floundering out in the center of the Atlantic Ocean, attempting to stay afloat as the boat that his my life slowly sinks. All of the lifeboats are gone. There is no escape. I am stranded, gasping for breath as I am slowly sinking in this sea of regrets. The life vests cannot float—my burdens are far too heavy for them to hold. I will sink 6 miles down to the bottom of the ocean, and there I will dwell, being crushed to death by the failure that has been my short, miserable life.
“sabertoothed multi-ball confusion.”
I think that’s a good phrase. It encompasses the whole of misunderstanding and failure to comprehend my own feelings.
“You’re too good for me. You’re too good for anyone.”
I’m sorry. My head is a swirling maelstrom of confusion that engulfs my mind into the dark, dark, depths of the ocean. I’m a submersible machine that is slowly cracking as I descend farther into the unknown, and the pressure warning alarm is lighting up and blaring out a horn as everything dims into a monochromatic red. And the submarine is sinking, no longer following my guidance. The metal groans as the water pressure climbs higher, compressing my little, metal, blimp that tries to stay intact. I know that I am going to die. There is no escape.
I honestly don’t know what is and isn’t real anymore. There isn’t any difference.
I’m very afraid that everything isn’t real anymore. That everything that I see and all those people are just projections of my fucked up mind—that Michael isn’t real, that I’m not real.
“I’m not the kind of fool to sit and sing to you.”
I keep on telling myself that single line from “Stuck on the Puzzle” by Alex Turner, repeating it like some religious mantra, like I’m in some cult that’s attempting to brainwash me by using that line. And I know that I’m not that kind of fool, but I still sing to you. And it unsettles me. And I am afraid.
I am afraid that what Sam has told me is right. And I know that perhaps it was just him lashing out because your hair is softer than his, but I am so afraid. I don’t want to be afraid.
I’m still upset about what Sam told me.
I want to cry.
are a child playing with matches and I have a paper body.
You will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms and she
will not have violent secrets or an affection for red wine or eyes
that never stay dry. You will fall into her bed and I’ll go back
to spending Friday nights with boys who never learn my last name.
I have chased off every fool who has tried to sleep beside me
You think it’s romantic to fuck the girl who writes poems about you.
You think I’ll understand your sadness because I live inside my own.
But I will show up at your door at 2 am, wild-eyed and sleepless.
and try and find some semblance of peace in your breastbone
and you will not let me in. You will tell me to go home.
~ (via grrrlpuke)
I want to perform a human vivisection on you. And then slowly burn you to death. You make me so angry and upset. Don’t tell me that I don’t understand what it’s like to be with someone and elevating them before any other human being. I apologize. Because its not like I was in an emotionally abusive relationship before being sexually harassed later by a different person.
So tell me how I don’t know.
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