. . .

Can we tell phi has the indomitable spirit

It’s all in my head but it feels like it’s on my clothes and in my bed and in the air and in my wounds it all feels so fucking gross. I don’t get to live like a person at all. I could sleep In a trash can and feel cleaner. And I guess it’s like. I’m calm because I have to be I can accept almost any condition in which I must make terms with. Like wow there’s just extremely harmful shit everywhere but it’s okay cause I’m used to this. Right. This has been my life. I can shrug and say yeah I’m being killed but I also need to sleep tonight and do my laundry and talk to people and all the other useless ways I pass my time. None of anything is rlly okay but I have things to do

I can’t tell if this is my fault or if this room is just genuinely a fucking bio hazard

THERE IS BLACK MOLD EVERYWHERE AND I RIPPED MY FINGERNAIL OFF AND I CANT FIGURE OIT HOW TO DO ANY OF THIS AT ALL

Organizing things to pack up like ‘is this important to me. Do I need you. Am I going to be okay without you’ and the answer is probably I’ll b fine without half the shit I want to take with me but keep breaking down like wow I’m gonna die if I don’t hoard these meager resources while I have them.

Fundamentally alienated and that’s been the problem, hasn’t it, but it’s different now than before. Now like watching waves crash and not noticing when they ceased hitting the sand. The long breath in, sucking, draw that bow and aim for land.

The problem is that things still look rlly bleak, objectively, there is still not many ways for me to live

I don’t have a name, but I can repeat some pronouns at you a few times in a sentence to establish a sense of self in relation, if it’s more comfortable.

Lately I’ve been holding still for minutes upon hours laying or sitting unable to focus my eyes while shapes and images and bits of music throw themself uselessly through the veins in my head