(no subject)
I was so different even two months ago, or three, or four, seeming like years or maybe just longer months. sometimes you wont convince me that months aren't 100 days long. these stories from months ago being all i have to hold onto now, and i wonder if they still stand; hold significance; hold truth; hold anything; hold. i swear i feel like a new person with every passing month, and the second day of each i feel like crawling back into the last one i was. i hated. i fucking loathed. now i fucking ache for. its not about unhappiness at all, it's about completely blocking the truth from you. who knows what im trying to say. this is pointless anyway. everything goes unanswered.