most of the ocean is unexplored because everyone agreed that weâd all sleep better at night if we dont know what the hell is down there

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@hellaciousangel
most of the ocean is unexplored because everyone agreed that weâd all sleep better at night if we dont know what the hell is down there

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I am bad at loving people. Iâm invested one moment; Planning the memories that will shape how theyâll destroy me, And the next Iâm Ripping apart words that theyâve said. Telling myself that love does not Exist. Love can not Keep me Safe. Iâll stop responding to messages; Stop picking up when they call. Iâll miss dinner once, Twice. Theyâll wonder where Iâve gone. Weeks go by with the same short responses. âI need some space. This is suffocating.â Why canât I do this? People will touch my soul. With care, and Iâll treat them like they Were the ones to create these Pieces that are engraving scars On my skin. Iâll treat them like horror scenes. Iâll run. Iâll convince them I love them, Until I can no longer convince Myself, and then Iâll run. Iâll misread every situation, It almost seems intentional. Creating problems just for kicks, as if I get pleasure out of Losing everything, everyone, By my own hands. Maybe itâs because It feels better being alone when youâre not waiting for the phone call where they say âI still love you.â Maybe itâs because Youâre not the one Waiting by the door for somebody Who will never come Home. Maybe itâs because Being disappointed in yourself Is easier than being disappointed In somebody you love. Iâll cast blame on anything That doesnât make me face The fact that I can not have a forever. Not with another person, No matter how badly I try. No matter how badly I want to. I can not trust my own bones; Why the fuck do I keep thinking I can trust anybody else?
//6:42 âSheâs gone again.â (via theproblemswithmissingyou)
Who am I? Who am I? God, I canât remember Anything, Any details? What am I made up of? Facts. Iâm 18. Wait no, 19 now. Bisexual; Girls are too pretty for me, though. Gender: Ghost. Female. Fuck. Fuck, what else? I hate myself. I canât think without Thinking about why Iâm thinking about the Thing that Iâm thinking about. Iâm childish. Iâm mature. Iâm scared. Iâm emotionless. Iâve been torturing somebody For 10 years. Quietly. But fuck, sheâs loud about it. Maybe I crave attention. But I hate them looking. Stop judging me. Stop. No, keep judging me. Please I donât know how I feel about anything. I donât know whatâs real. These scars are real. Her scars are real. I donât think Iâm real. She thinks she is, But sheâs losing it. Iâm losing it. Her pain is real; I can feel it, But those emotions do not Run through me. Sometimes I want to hold her. To apologize for what Iâm doing. Maybe some kind of sympathy, But I donât have any empathy, So I tear her apart again. Iâm not certain anything else is real. I fail to understand Or realize reality. I spend too much time studying her actions. Judging her actions. They tell me Iâm borderline and that Iâm slipping into a psychotic state. I donât understand. She thinks she does, though. She recognizes those detachments; Those flaws in herself. The flaws I canât even see. I keep telling myself sheâs lying. Sheâs not sick. Iâm not sick. I study her. I am more me than she is, I would know. I would know better than anyone. They tell us we need medication; We need to calm down. I feel calm. I tell them I donât know what Theyâre talking about. And then they point out her shaking, Her scratching at her skin, The blood soaked rags, The burns, The drugs, The hospitalizations, The destruction. I forgot these arms are mine too. She sobs, I can feel it. I tell her she needs to calm down. They say we need to make a choice. I donât want the medication. She screams. She says itâll stop her pain. I thrive on her pain. I exist for her pain. They say I need to be smarter. I tell them I have an IQ of 145 and I know What Iâm talking about. They point out the suicide attempt that Happened in the school bathroom. I donât understand. They donât seem to understand either. They tell me itâs selfish. That Iâm traumatizing people. I tell them its only traumatizing because It makes things real. She tells me Iâm proof that liars Exist. She tells me Iâm proof that humans Are capable of destroying. Sheâs so gullible, though. I tell her itâll be alright, And she looks over the shaking The scratching, The blood, the burns, The drugs, The hospitalizations, The destruction And she believes me. Iâm burning her alive and She believes me. Is that who I am? Am I her? Am I the annoying, needy, empty girl? Or am I me? Is she the disease? Am I? Are we sick? Who am I? Who am I?
Sierra Nichole (2016 )
Iâve never empathized with my pain. It has never felt real, So I didnât think it was. But recently Iâve lost something I couldnât put my hands on. Love without touch. Love without a word. Love without a sound. Before I could even grasp onto the idea of how much I loved her, She was gone. She was here. And then she was gone. And this is pain. It was the first time it felt real. It was the first time I felt real feeling something. But I dont want this. This kind of hurt. I havenât slept in weeks. I lay awake in my own nightmare, And when I can sleep I dream about what Her hands and feet would look like. If sheâd have my eyes or his nose, My white hair, or his brown. I dream about playing with her and holding her And living my life with her. I dream about her dying Over and over and over and over I wonder if sheâd hurt like I do. If sheâd too start hearing sounds at night, And if Iâd be able to comfort her back to sleep. If monsters would feed off of her psyche Until she couldnât breathe. If I would be able to run them off and be what She deserved. If I would be able to be the parent I wish I had. One that understands the insanity. One that loved her for everything she was. I would have loved her for everything she was. I wonder if she would have loved me. I wonder if she knows I love her. I wonder if she would have been happy. I have nightmares of the blood. It covers me head to toe, Like Iâm soaking in her goodbye. Sometimes I wake up and still can feel my legs Drenched, and a faint cry will echo. Iâll scream to make it stop, But even once the blood disappears, And it is just me in the silence with my tears, I still donât have her. The nightmare doesnât stop, And I have to face the reality That I canât make her mine. I didnât know I could love somebody this much. I never even got to hold her hand, And my mind is still haunted with her touch. And I feel selfish And guilty And broken. Because I lost my baby, But I feel like I stole his, And I think he blames me for the loss Of our unborn kid. And he says itâs okay, because he already has a baby, and that it would have been a mess from the start. But he also cries to me drunk about her; A baby we never got to know. He says he wish he could have had us all together, And together weâd have a home. But I didnât mean for anything to happen, The doctor says âIt just doesâ That sometimes babies die, And that is best to move on. That Iâm lucky I wasnât further along. That it would hurt more. He says itâs for the best, I should be on my medicine. My brother says it was a bullet dodged, That she would have ruined my life. That he doesnât want to see me stranded with a baby, Broken and eaten alive. Strangled without freedom. He says he doubts I would have survived. But Iâm sitting here dying with the memory of a baby I never got to hold, And theyâre telling me itâs okay because babies are hard and babies are loud. That she wouldâve made me want to scream and pull my hair out. They say theyâre happy I didnât have to go through a full pregnancy. They say theyâre happy for me, Because she wouldâve ruined my life. But I just lost a baby. I just lost a baby and theyâre telling me Iâm lucky when I feel like Iâm dying. As if I wouldnât of dealt with the crying and hard times. As if I donât feel the loss because she never was laid in my arms. As if she wasnât mine. As if I would have chosen this over her. Theyâre telling me itâs okay, and itâs not. Itâs not okay. Itâs not okay. Iâm not okay.
//5:07 âUnbornâ (via theproblemswithmissingyou)
Eager, and drunk He told me to stop crying. And my fists were swinging Until his weight stopped the fighting. I fought. I know I did but sometimes when I replay those nights Iâm still. Maybe I didnât say no enough times Or maybe he didnât hear me. Sometimes I convince myself I needed him Like he said, I practically pleaded. Sometimes it doesnât make any sense How those nights went down. One moment I was in love with him and the next I was begging him to let me off the ground. And Iâd bleed. Iâd bleed. Blood Sometimes tears. Sometimes unrecognizable words where I told him I still needed him here. Heâd go to bed after Iâd clean up the mess. The broken dishes The blood The matches that left me in the ash. I swear to you Sometimes I was in love with him. Most of the time, in fact. He was souless and broken But so was I and I fed off of the bruises And I let him drive me insane And I believed that if we werenât in love Than nobody could ever be.
//âI swear to you, I loved him.â (via theproblemswithmissingyou)

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All I wanted was to be wanted.
(via remember-the-reason)
I donât know how to do this on my own
side effects of being numb due to mental illness:
not crying for weeks and weeks on end til one day breaking down over something not actually worth getting upset for
not being able to tell if your feelings for people are platonic or romantic or if youâre just lonelyÂ
instead of caring too much not caring at all about anythingÂ
not being able to process anything going on in your life and when you try your brain stalling out
losing your train of thought every five seconds so when you try to have a conversation having to pause and remember what you were trying to sayÂ
word vomitingÂ
mind âSTATICâ
thisđđź

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I donât drink to forget you, I drink to forget that youâve forgotten me, and to remember the times when you hadnât.
drink to forget // excerpt from a book Iâll never write (via tell-me-a-story-sweetie)
Some people drink themselves sick night after night. Others get high almost as often as they take in oxygen. And some find a new lover every other month. And the sad part of that isnât the fact that theyâre destroying themselves, though it may be true. The saddest part of all of it is that each of those people are just looking for a remedy for whatever bullshit theyâre forced to feel. Lets be honest, weâre all just looking for a pain-killer. And mine just so happened to be you.
You were the only remedy. (via everything-i-forgotâto-say)