Here I lie on my bed, practically grinning ear to ear. Perhaps it’s numbness, a sensation I’ve missed for so long, when the racing and roaring thoughts slow to a crawl and so many of them feel like nothing. Noise is a comfort, the light ringing of the ambiance of a bedroom. Anxiety to anxiety, push to pull, I wonder if my ideas could be achieved. Not in spite of my life but because of them. Oh diary, I often feel so lost and here your blank space is offered fully for me to fill. I used to hate dresses, heels too. I always thought I’d be a hoodie kinda girl, I guess in a way I still am. I have a secret, a warm gooey secret that for the first time in my life feels so special I just can’t share it. Not because of gossip or morals but because by telling others I know no one will value it as much as me. Writing when I’m happy feels like bragging, kinda makes me feel gross. I’m just so giddy and hopeful for shedding this dead skin, being someone who’s curteous and thoughtful, sensitive and strong.
These words exited my hands, their tone mismatching my advance. I cut all open for ever, but I guess breaking even will occur never. You will ignore and judge, be mean and reconnect just to use your tether. I self abuse, I hold paranoias knife against my own throat. For only hourglasses to prove me true. But it’s okay, I can bleed until their is no more I’m still a doormat, I’m still so weak. Vials and pills, a generous share spills, when the situation flips, none for me to sip. No words, not even a pip.