2009-02-16 2:17 p.m.
"Tomorrow you can totally erase me from your mind... No, really. Everything is fine."
Does anybody even read this anymore? I'd be surprised. I don't even read this anymore.
...I feel like I may as well be screaming on the moon, though, for all the good everything's doing me.
I'd probably feel better if I were screaming on the moon.
At least then I'd be getting it all out.
-pokepokepoke-
Anyone alive in there?
Try back in a month or so. At least then there will be a definitive answer, rather than this living-dead-zombie-insanity-shit I've been doing lately.
Rain, rain, fall today,
Or the storm will just come back someday...
That's not how that went.
Does it matter?
I guess not.
it's truer that way
Hush.
Have you ever seen a shattered porcelain doll? All the random bits scattered around the floor? And those glass eyes staring up at you so accusingly?
I've seen a broken one. Not a shattered one. My dad knocked her over while he and my mom were fighting. I cried for days, even after he glued her back together.
"The pieces don't fit together so well
With all the breaking and all the gluing back..."
She looked like me. I looked like her. Something.
I look like her more now. My cracks are showing.
.
....
.......
..........
.............
................
I'm just so ANGRY.
I want to break things. Or hit someone.
...Especially hit someone. Beat the hell out of them. Take everything out on them.
No. Not someone.
Yeah...just her. Not all her fault, I know that. But why do I have to be the responsible one? I've never ever been able to just let shit go. I've always had to be the adult, the responsible adult. I've been everyone's big sister, hell, everyone's MOTHER, since I was seven.
I'm tired. So tired.
They don't get it.
Nobody should. Getting it...is bad. You can't get it if you haven't been here.
I hate being alone.
"I suffer mornings most of all...
I feel so powerless and small...
By ten o'clock I'm back in bed, fighting the jury in my head..."
Stop quoting songs. They say everything and nothing. They aren't my words. They're a shorthand. Too much plausible deniability means I deny everything...
...even my own existence.
I want to disappear
My arms are stinging and red. Yellow bruises popping up, blood drying brown...Now how did that happen?
My cracks are showing.
Please, just make it stop hurting.
Only I can do that, though. Somehow. Is it even possible?
I wouldn't even know who I was without this pain. You have to have something to survive if your identity is based on being a survivor. Catch-22. Game, set, and match to Fate.
Fuck Fate.
I don't even believe in it anyway.
Except the part that says that everyone dies. And the bit that says that I'm meant to be alone.
...Psychologist appointment in the morning.
Thank God.
He'll see the marks on my arms. Ask how they got there.
Oh shit.
Or maybe not. It's cold. Wear long sleeves. Like always.
That solves nothing.
Talking about it doesn't solve anything either.
That's because I can't bring myself to be honest about it.
...
Forget everything you've just read. It doesn't matter anyway.