A dark place.

I read poetry. Because nothing makes me feel more complete, Than my suffering to be understood, By people I don’t even know.

I wish words could exist that describe the indescribable pain I feel every day. But they don’t. So I use the same words again and again. Losing hope and hoping for relief at the same time.

What if I slept a little more and forgot about all this nonsense.

But in the end one needs more courage to live than to kill himself.

I am an antisocial, social butterfly. I hate being ignored, but I ignore other people. What is wrong with me?

(I’m) tired of waking up (tired).

Anxiety, insomnia, depression… I’ve dealt with them for so long that they’re almost comfortable to me now. Of course, I would rather not have them, but at least they are familiar. I know what they feel like. I know what to expect. I know who I am, for better or worse.

Don’t blame yourself for your sickness, as your mother wouldn’t do if you had something as simple as a common cold - yet she blames you for the sick that lives in your head. The kind of sick that eats you up like a virus, when it broke into your burning building of a body and found comfort in your restless.

And that’s the thing, They don’t fucking know. And you can’t say anything because you sit and choke on your own tongue. I’m haunted by versions of myself that have died every day. They ask “Are you alright?” but don’t want the answer “I’m not f*cking okay

You wear a mask for so long, you forget who you were beneath it.

You said you didn’t want to see me get hurt, so does that mean you closed your eyes when I cried?