Ella

Are you lost? Virtual diary.

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I’d give so many tomorrows for another yesterday with you

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Sometimes I wonder if maybe I’m just going about life in the wrong way

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I want someone to be my everything when no one is anything

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Sick

My friends are sick of hearing about you. Imagining new ways to comfort me, make me laugh. You make me cry, and the comfort I seek from you disguised itself as hatred.

I’m sick of thinking about you. Tiring thoughts crowding my mind, spinning on this carousel of despair. Yet my mind can’t keep track, replaying the beautiful images of your soft lips and your eyes, filled with prayers of blue skies. You could do anything, and I couldn’t make myself to hate you.

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Does the fact that I’m hurting make me inferior? Does making myself hurt more make me “wrong”? I must deserve these blades: slicing waves into my skin, slowly parting the Red Sea of which is contained inside of my veins. It feels right, so I must deserve it. Do I deserve any of this? My mind is ‘God’s’ messenger, delivering the words which cut me deeper than any razor ever could. Yet i always go back to her; the crimson droplets shimmering off of my thighs, the cold, damp feeling I get when I climb into bed. I live in my own pathetic war zone, and whatever it is, will strike. Shots fired.