I have this guilt building inside of me, but when I look at it exclusively, it's not really guilt at all. It's what I wanted, it's what I want, I guess I want it all. I want the pain and the pleasure, the swelling of my chest, the sting of metal against my wrists. I want the taste in my mouth, the acid in my throat, I want everything.

I hurt you, and you don't even know it yet. You don't even know the half of it.

I'm drifting like woah, it's the feeling of being weightless when I am, in actuality, being weighed down. This happy phase was just a thin coat of paint. Now, I am stripped, I am raw, I am nothing. And it's so easy. It's so easy to sink into this and to make excuses.. but at the same time it's hard. It's hard to live in this constant sadness, this perpetual sorrow that springs forth in my life for no particular reason. I have control over nothing. My numbers are steadily increasing in every way possible. And I can't make them lower, I can't make them stable. I can't make myself into nothing because I don't even have control over it anymore.

250.. 275.. 1000.

140.. 139.. 100.

phone calls aren't doing much

I'm gone.

You won't be hear a word from me from now on.

I'm tired of being this pathetic, I'm so tired of it. I don't need anyone or anything. I want to live off of air in the middle of the dark. I hate the way things are.

Alright, plain and simple, with no sense of style. No literary devices. Only plain, boring, straight-forward diction.


School is OK. I'm not doing my best. I made straight-A's in high school, and yes, I will talk about it forever because it is, sadly, one of my only accomplishments. I'm pretty sure that I'm making straight-B's here. I mean, I know that I have an 83 in Biology and an 88 in chemistry. I have a 93ish in biology lab, I think, and I guess that that will average in with the 83 and make it a bit higher. I have a 95 in chemistry lab, which is a separate grade. I have a couple of other classes, but I don't even want to think about them. They're pointless. I think I have A's in them? I have a paper due in one of them that I really need to get started on. I think it's due Monday and if so, I'm screwed. I also have an art project due, and I'm really killing myself with this stuff, I guess. Godddd.

My relationships are screwed, I think. I don't know how to do anything right.

Me weight is also screwed. I've gained so much. I lost a lot the first couple of weeks because I was uncomfortable with eating stuff here, so I ate less. But now I am WAYTOOCOMFORTABLE, so I am eating a TON, and I have gained all the weight back plus some. I'm trying to work out everyday and count calories again, but I'm failing. I managed yesterday, somehow, but it was the first time in a while.

I'm going to be late. I hate time.

OK, editeditedit.

I'm editing, and I don't even have much to say. I'm probably just doing this for the love of typing, free writing.

It's easier to write about things than to accomplish them.

I can't exert control over myself in this place and in this state.
I'm sick to my stomach, but I'm still wanting. I want, I want, I destroy.

honesty.

i just made myself so sick that it hurts to breathe. my muscles are cramping, and my throat is burning. i hate being at home. i hate being at home. i can't control these stupid urges.

and now my body is going to grab onto all the water that it can, and i'm going to get even fatter. i'm going to break out with acne and hate myself even more.

i want water and water and water and americano and water and cold liquid down my throat and espresso in my veins. i want to dance and spin until i see stars and black and then fog and i'm gone. yeah, so long. nice knowing you.

man, i don't even have a style anymore. i don't fit into a category, i don't have an identity. and maybe i fit into the group that likes it like that. but who knows? i am shamefully self-aware.

shamefully, not shamelessly, mind you.

don't walk away

Yeah, in my dream I was an eternal Cinderella, but you still left. I'm not even good enough to have a prince that stays.


Why can't you love me like you say you do? Why can't I move on?

I'm sleeping in a bed that is not mine, and I'm waking up to breathing that is not yours. Voices at night are pleading with me to give in, to give myself away to someone that I hardly even know. "Love is just an idea that people carry with them, it's not as big of a deal as people say it is. At least say that you could love me sometime, and that's enough. I promise, it's enough." But it's not enough. I know it's not enough. It's not hard for me to love someone, but it's hard for me to trust them enough to accept that they love me. And it's hard for me to utter the three terrible words that so often get misused. I can't even say it to my parents, I can hardly say it to you. And you're all that I see when there are kisses on my neck, body heat laying next to me.

I want this to hurt you, although it will probably only make you care less.

you're under my skin

Wow, you're not even trying.

I am such an idiot for letting your apathy tear me apart this way.

Youwillnotcomearound.
Youwillnotcomearound.
Youwillnotcomearound.


I need to get that idea to stick with me. I need to repeat it over and over again, I need to take it in like a virus, so I can get used to the sting and it can become a permanent mark in me. I need to become immune.

all that i do

11 AM, pages for you.

I keep turning the pages, and the story is never over. I think that we're getting to the end, the blank pages that the publishing companies stick in for symmetry, but the lines keep flowing, the words never end. We are poetry, we are prose, we are art, we are passion. And it's hard to believe that you're cutting it off. It's like ending a story before you even get to the climax. You know how in that movie Elf, Buddy's dad worked for a publishing company and realized that he'd never make his deadline, so he ended up printing a children's book that was missing 5 pages of the story? This is what you're doing. Only, you're not taking away five pathetic pages, you're taking away years. Years that we could be, years that we could try, years that we could make something happen because I know you, I know that you love me, I know that we could do it. And it hurts. It hurts to know that we have this love, this connection, this knowledge of each other and how we interact and love each other in the most amazing way, and to know that it's going to waste. And you're wiping the slate clean with this one. You're telling me that you want me to go, that you want me to seek others, and to stray away, far away from you. You're telling me that you want me to start over completely. It's like our story was being typed up on a computer and then the hard drive crashed, erasing everything, every bit of imagery, every precious metaphor. I can hardly stand to even speak of such things because I love you so much that it doesn't make sense, this doesn't make sense. I can't believe this is happening, and I can't believe that you're letting it.

the end.