u ever wear fingerless gloves and hold a hot drink and immediately feel like a 1900s victorian urchin taking a break from pickpocketing to gratefully accept a meal from the soup kitchen

i understand why van gogh cut off his ear and shot himself in the middle of an open field like i get it now

i hope you don’t sleep at night. i hope you constantly feel the sting of alcohol and bile in your throat. i hope you regret everything you ever said to me or made you do and i hope it’s burned into your mind every waking hour.

no offense but mental illness is the only concrete thing about me and if i were to recover i’d have no idea who i am and that terrifies me

When they ask me why I don’t wanna get better