A poem
I don't know what to say lately. I say too much lately. My brain races and my heart loses. Or maybe it's the other way around. I can't do anything right. I can't even do anything. I don't want to go anywhere unless it's to him. I don't want to belong to anyone but him. All I want is him. All I need is him.
I decided to stop eating yesterday. What a loaded statement. I guess that's like saying I decided to start dying yesterday. I'm also wishing that he'd hit me lately.
I feel empty lately. I haven't done much in a few days but sleep and that's probably why. I'm slowly decaying and aiding the process. I want to make art. I want to die. I want to live. I want to love and be loved. My nails are bitten and my hands are tired. I am a succession of bad decisions. I'm fucked up, insecure, neurotic and emotional and I'm FINE. I'm fine I tell him I don't care you won't fuck me. I haven't stopped writing yet and I know that's a good thing. I don't care you won't love me. But I hear my bones tell me that I actually really fucking do.
Unrequited love is a sad story. What the fuck even is a sad story? It's my story. Sob story sad story. I'm miserable and ecstatic. I'm heartbroken and apathetic. I'm screaming and silent. I am a dichotomy at my core and he knows it.
I wish he'd fall in love with me. I wish he'd hurt me more. I wish he'd punch me and bruise me. And that's the truth. I talked to my therapist about it today and we came to the conclusion that if I had bruises people would ask. And I'd love it. Attention is what victims of neglect seek. In fucked up ways. Like losing so much weight people think you have cancer. That's what I want. I want to lose 50 pounds. I want to destroy myself. God I'm sick. God I'm sick. I don't want to get better. Half of me is better, the part of me that doesn't drink anymore. Half of me wishes she was dead.
