I’m fun to flirt with but not to date because I’m a psychopath
bulimia is fattening an animal up only to slaughter the creature when it least expects it; it is the dull throb just above your cheekbones that sometimes makes you fear your eyes will pop right out of your skull like an old cartoon; it is using your body as a gun and nourishment as ammunition; it is the dizzy-quiet of total emptiness; it is your very own disgusting groundhog day; it is a chess game with your body; it is the moment when you realise the car is going to hit you; it is turning the bruised piece of fruit over so no one notices it’s rotten; it is the devastating ache for sickness that seems to soak through everything you do and everyone you know; it is packing and unpacking yourself like a suitcase in the hopes that this time things will fit back into the right places; it is the feeling of falling asleep in a stranger’s house; it is damned if you do and damned if you don’t, so damn, why not do both; it is kissing your knuckles in an unspoken apology; it is hoping that you won’t pass out this time rather than betting that you will; it is reading information into various shades of blood (light red is you’re almost there, don’t be scared, dark red is oh my god what have i done i didn’t mean for things to go this way); it is the way you feel when you witness a car accident; it is skin and bone hitting hot asphalt; it is lighting a cigarette in a gas station; it is a dog crawling away under the family house to die.
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.
my sadness isn’t poetic, nor artistic. it’s just simply my sadness. it’s mine. i can’t let it go. it follows me around. there’s no one who’s going to save me, no one who can look at my scars and find them beautiful. it’s ruined my life. i don’t want to ruin someone else’s life by getting them involved with me…it’s ugly. i don’t want it anymore.
i’m just so unbearably sad. it’s not fair. i was just a child. how can someone do something that will fuck you up in the long run? it’s not fair. it isn’t. it’s too late now. it’s too late for me. everything makes sense now. but what is there to do? what’s next..
omg she is me.
In some ways I love everything, it’s less of a thing than like, less distinct, less particular. I like things that I like.. but, I love everything. There’s more choice in like, because even the worst things have things to love in them. I love things so much I feel like I could float away.
what sucks is i really tried to be happy, yeah i made great new friends but i don’t deserve them at all. all i’ve done was make me feel even more worthless and lonely …and now i’m back at square one.
last year i had horrible anxiety about new year’s. i was begging for you to hang out with me because i felt maybe it would be our year, and our friendship could work out and be better after all we went through. but this year was actually the year we stopped talking. it took a very long time for me to get over it and honestly i might still not be. it sucks but i’ve met many, many great friends this year. but it was also the year i just stopped caring. i don’t know… some days i want to stop and just get better and try, and some days i just want to die. things drastically change though. i can’t wait till next year’s new year and see how things will change in the upcoming year. and i should be alive for that.
I was always an unusual girl, my mother told me I had a chameleon soul. No moral compass pointing due north, no fixed personality. Just an inner indecisiveness that was as wide and as wavering as the ocean, and if I said that I didn’t plan for it to turn out this way I’d be lying, because I was born to be the other woman. I belonged to no one who belonged to everyone, who had nothing who wanted everything with a fire for every experience and an obsession for freedom that terrified me to the point that I couldn’t even talk about and pushed me to a nomadic point of madness that both dazzle and dizzied me.