blue moon girl

My legs are numb and pinned to the bed and my heart keeps skipping beats and I’ve stayed up way more than I should have. And I seem to have been so blind because I’ve been unknowingly suffocating behind rose coloured glass and for once I cannot touch it, I cannot find the core, the rotten womb that gave birth to this watery disgust and nausea. I must confess I am obsessive and I will go to great length just to count your breaths or overhear your conversation or see how you slip on your shirt. I am obsessive and my body cannot contain me and I am made up of more irrationalities than I am made up of myself. I think I’ve crossed all boundaries of what is human and I’ve immersed myself in this vain search for equal intimacy and possession. I must confess I am ill and I do not deserve to exist as a sane person. I do not deserve to eat food out of a plate or wake up and get dressed and take the bus to work or college. I do not deserve to walk on cold bathroom tiles or water plants. I am meant to stick to another body, to lose any meaning of the self, to commit the most horrendous immoral acts, to show that I am no good and that any good I ever did was to be reached and dissected and to have someone spill themselves on me. I am not meant for what I like but I’m afraid I don’t hate what I’m meant for, searching for your Achilles heel and stabbing it and digging in it and thinking that I am giving and caring when I wipe the blood and wrap it up and kiss you on your upper lip and collar bones. I must confess. I am nostalgic and longing, I remember more than I live, I am memories and visual descriptions and sounds yet I’ve never heard any of it and I’ve never seen any of it and I’m afraid I’ve never existed everywhere. I’m afraid I long for what I’ve never had and I see myself sitting on a seat in an picture taken before I was born but I tell myself that seat is mine, that bus drove me here but I know I am nowhere to be found. There is no thrill like the thrill of going hysterical, of existing like an empty jar, ringing and echoing whenever you are touched yet never being able to touch back.

why are you repeating a pattern you want no part in? remember who you are.

Do I even have real emotions or do I just have a menstrual cycle

Sometimes I get very despondent about how many of the emotions that distress me so much are seemingly just the results of like hormones and hunger and being sleepy. Like it feels like sometimes the things I feel so deeply aren’t even “real”. And other times I take a great amount of comforting at looking at my own despair and being like “shut up, you’re literally just bloating”