I mostly want to die.
I love you more than anything but dying feels more comforting cause then I won’t have to get up in the morning.
I can’t blame my past or my misuse; it’s genetic and feels deeper than blood.
I wish I were docile, I think I’d enjoy me more.
I’m yelling for attention it feels like.
I wish I looked like something you’d stare at in the street.
I want to cut my gut open and feel something.
I’ll just keep typing away at this keyboard, and driving my old car, and shopping at grocery stores in hopes that something or someone will say a kind word and let the day be ok for a couple of hours.
I want to be desired by everyone and reject them one by one.
I want to eat till I throw up.
I want to sleep till I’m paralyzed.
I want money, tons of it, and I want to spend it on charities and fine chocolates.
My nature isn’t delicacy, its durability. I wasn’t built for leisure, I was built for burning.
I like dreaming of old friends and forgetting all the betrayal, and frolicking like old times down familiar streets but with our new- old faces and all those cigarettes.
I don’t like people. Most of us feel this way, don’t try and deny it, you know it’s true. But, imagine this, can I be a good person, a loyal and kind person, even if I hate people?
I suppose to the untrained eye I might sound (look?) like I have my shit straight, but my psychologist dubbed me as BPD with PTSD and I LMAO.
I have a chart out there, in multiple hospitals, with more information than I ever cared to give.
I spend most days indoors and practice at making my body strong and my mind stable. Or the other way around.
I don’t want pity or love or understanding. I just want to be able to be how I want to be minute to minute. I want to fill my proverbial tool box with control mechanisms.
I just want to feel less, and talk less, and cry less. I just want to stop watching such sad movies.