AMELIA.

It feels like I finally belong, like I’ve finally been taken home. After floating around for so long, lost in it all, I found the lighthouse, I found my sense of warmth. I’m home, I’m home, I’m home.

— it’s ironic how comfortable the sadness had become. When I first felt it, I found myself desperately trying to get away from it, wanting nothing more but to feel the warmth of happiness again. But now, I run into it with open arms, wanted to be accepted by the only consistent thing in my life. Sadness.

— I can’t believe that this is my body. From head to toe, I can feel every joint and socket, I can move every finger and elbow. Knowing I’m presence scares me, knowing that I’m real and not just some image I have made in my head. Other people see me, understand me, indulge in me, yet my body still seems so disconnected from everyone and everything. Sometimes reality seems like a false sense of hope I have given myself in attempt to seem alive.

— Their love was searing hot, the kind of love that burned in your chest for days after seeing them. They were like the lit cigarette on a masochist’s arm, the skin bubbling and boiling as the masochist fell deeper in love admist the blinding pain they had building in them.

— I’m sick of my body. I’m yet so young, but this shell and skin has never felt older. I wish to be someone else, someone different from my current state. I wish to escape every memory and scene that my skin has seen, and move onto a better form, a purer form that isn’t as corrupted with truama as my last body.

— my body feels like a cage that keeps me from dancing with the one I love that my mind can’t keep.