(Untitled)

[_socialitewhore]

I'm not sure why I do certain things.

Like looking through my [hate box]. Full of sleeping pills. Ibuprophen. Protractors that have penetrated me. Exacto knife blades. My suicide note. The pink note written about me and about [us] that i shuffle through and read even though I have it practically memorized...

And so I sit alone in the dark.

Comments

words bring more relief than blood

[anonymous]

when did i stop wanting to feel
when did my joy become skin deep
when did pleasure begin to hurt more than pain
easier to cry and harder to laugh
when did i begin to detach for fear of attachment
terrified of vulnerability
terrified of being alone, but even more scared of being in need
dependant on a friend, a lover, a dream
but nothing is concrete
friends become enemies
love loses spark
dreams become disappointing reality
we wipe the tears out of our eyes
but they leave tracks on our cheeks and scars on our hearts
and to what end
to what do we have to face in the future
aging. if we're lucky,
eternal youth if we aren't
so what do we hope for
death now or death later
dying now means things can't get worse
but it also means they can't get better
and so it becomes a matter of faith
faith
i' m not sure i know what faith is
i have faith in the fact that i can't be perfect until i am flawed
i have faith that i wont be able to be honest until i lie
to love until i have hated, to laugh until i have cried
to feel relief until i have felt pain
and to feel supreme happiness until i have felt unparalleled sorrow.
and so i choose to have faith in the fact that things will get better
that being alive is better than being dead
and that one day i will wake up and the sun will shine
the birds will chirp and for the first time since i can remember
i will be content
i will be alive
i will be me again
the thought of that morning is the only reason that at night i rest in a bed
and not in a coffin