(no subject)
i bloodied my hand today. punching a door mercilessly. i'm tired of this room, with all these false promises. i'm still waiting here. waiting for everything that's not coming. waiting for that grandoise event. waiting for the day when my heart doesn't eat itself before i open my eyes. but it's not coming. it never will. just like you. and i still love you. how fucked up is that? considering the mind, it's not a surprise. i'm running out of time, however. being broken can only go so far. and then the broken breaks for good. i don't want your sympathy. but this is not a choice. is it still what you make it? what does that mean anyway? life, love, time, and the descruction of oneself are all relative qualities.
BUT WHAT IF NONE OF THIS IS TRUE?