I’m tired, I’m just so tired. This feels like a dream again, I’m scared, they’re all turning strange.
Who am I? Who am I? What’s wrong with me? I don’t want to know anymore, I doubt I care anymore, when’s a better time? The sky is lighting up, a gradient of maya blue. The night, or what’s left of the night isn’t too dull, the temperature is just fine. You’ve thought about it all, it’s alright to
I cant write another word, this is not what or how I’m feeling, I’m always different, I’m always flickering between these shit, I won’t ever know what this is.
I want to write something peaceful, I don’t care if this is not how I feel, when’s a better time? Where can I go before I fuck up again and again and again and again and again?
I feel like my heart isn’t beating, hate, hate, all that’s left is hate, the hate is going to swallow me whole.
It hurts so much, I don’t know how to describe this, off track, off track.
I can’t be one. Not that I have split personalities or something, I guess things are kinda bad. It’s fine, keep writing.
Nobody will know, nobody will come, nobody will know. Nobody knows anything about me, nobody cares enough to know anything about me. I don’t know how to share anymore, i can’t get anything done. It’s my fault, it’s my fault, it’s all my fault. I’ve never done anything right in my life, never, never, never, it’s all my fault.
I want to cry it all out, but there’s so much, there’s too much, there’s so much all piled up, there isn’t a space for more. I don’t know why I remind myself of those times, those symbols, those words, I don’t know why. Being like this is almost a part of me I don’t want to let go, who am I if I’m not like this? What am I if I’m not like this?
I’ve been writing so much, everywhere, suicide notes and vents and whatever, that no one will see.
The walls, the non-stop hitting sounds, of the head, and the walls, the walls.
Who am I without my memories?
The sound of paper tearing apart. Everyone’s eyes, stares, voices, sounds, the speeches across the couch, songs, old songs, and her voice singing. Buddhist music that won’t fucking stop, it’s all fading, it’s all getting meaningless, who am I if they don’t mean anything to me?
Tides of sleepiness, dazzling pale sunlight. Balcony, phone, beer, broken words, white sneakers, yellow checked pants, the scent of the perfume I couldn’t smell, again, again. I don’t want them to leave me.
Nothing matters anymore. spring beaches, broken shells, cords of lamps, pull on it for a little longer.
It just wont grow up. If I just don’t grow up.
She was under that fucking bed, the voice of women and men arguing, crying, crying, arguing, accusing. It was so cold, that day. There’s so much.
it won’t get better, it won’t ever get better, it may work on others, but I don’t see a future, other than more of this, pushed into things only to fail their expectations again and again, ruin things again and again, and again and again.
I’m kind of masochistic, but it doesn’t matter, this doesn’t matter, I don’t know what I’m saying, I’m just so tired. I’m fine, this is fine.
I can’t do it yet, but it would be nice, a few month before that fucking birthday I’m terrified off, what’s left of spring is warming up. Then falling asleep in the early summer morning, never to grow old,