zha

Someday, I hope in a hall full of flowers, I exist as a star. I don't want to be called alive by everything that could wither but hasn't. I hope I burn as the brightest blue, come alive like nothing could ever stand close to the fumes, exist as a lifetime, exist as eternal to someone's lifetime.

how do I tell my parents that every morsel has become hard for me to swallow not only because I am genuinely repulsed everytime I look in the mirror but there is a lump in my throat close to where I feel my voice stems from which takes the shape of everything i pretend to hate and everything i pretend I am just so they could recognize me. That it has become hard to me to eat anything without a boulder, shaped like a moth eating away at the insides of my chest and not because I want to defy them and stress them out. How do I even begin to tell them anything when they look at me with so much hope that I can't help but kill every part of me that wants to turn to the other side and face shiny little things. Where do I go when nowhere feels like home? But why is it that I can't remember a home? just familiar hallways and too big rooms and too small closets and too much of everything which meant nothing and people who who meant so much. I haven't felt happiness in a very long time and I am not sure if I ever felt it. I don't get the urge to smile and my eyes are tired all the time. If I were to die right now, there isn't much i would miss from this world. But I am so much afraid of being alone in a grave. I used to get nightmares of being in a grave when I was 12 i used to be so afraid of sleeping but I never told anybody i used to wait by the kitchen door till all dishes were washed and I felt sleepy enough to not think past half a thought when I went back. I still fear the dark and dying and a grave that would close on me and a hell that would be waiting for me. And If I tell my mom i want to die, she will cry and tell me don't she will probably tell me about evil eye burn some incense sticks and never look through the crescent indents on my palms and over my knuckles and the demons which are essentially just a part of me. Sometimes I worry that everyone I will ever be with will know this misery and be a part of it either the giver of the receiver, that I will never know happiness and peace. Everything has felt pointless to me since years and I can't ever being myself to believe that a few more days, a few more months will change that. I feel like throwing up all the time and I don't know better. What do I do, mama? I stopped cutting my hair because you mourned over it last year and I wish I could tell you, your unreachable daughter was disappearing into the ground too. The beautiful hair of mine you keep reminding me of belonged to someone else, a kid, someone i think of as a character, an outward existence and I wish I was brave enough to tell you she died a long time ago between nightmares and sincerity. Please look at me too. Look at me for what I am and not what I was supposed to be. Look at me before I die too.

I need a structure not alarms tbh