What Do I Write Here?

You don't need to be okay to live a life worth living.

You just need to be not ready to die.

Not ready to leave this world yet.

That is your empowerment to keep going.

Living is your reason for never giving up.

Does anyone want to become infatuated with each other's language? Fall in love by sending each other corny quotes about falling in love and letting all our troubles blow away in the wind.

We could create a world with just you and me.

Neither of us has to be afraid of being alone ever again.

I don’t understand my habits, they don’t seem to match the vision my eyes see for me.

I’m young twenties- petite, because my strength comes from inside me. I have a heart that beats in rhythm of purity. I just wish to pass it to someone who knows how to take care of such a heart. One that deserves special attention. One that has been through the ringer one too many and needs a safe home.

But this reversed world won’t let me.

I am stuck in a slump-ish routine that requires the minimalist of efforts.

Work, school, my pleasure comes from watching classic horror films and flicking my bean during a sex scene. God I feel like my lazy older brother trapped in a women’s body with big tits.

Clearly I’m no kind of sugar you want in your coffee, I’ll face the truth and say it, I’m a real bitch.

Took just over two years of countless first dates and false hope to finally come to terms with the fact that I’m not cut out for love.

Had it once, wasn’t even real. That’s puppy love you find just after you peak in high school, the relationship just began so you keep going to feed your thrill of attention and young teenage sexual desire.

Now I’m sitting here alone in my mothers house wishing I could hear another voice besides the ones that are loosening the screws inside my head.

While all my other friends smoosh it up with their lovers, pop out babies, buy new homes and collect more things to share together just to fight over who gets which piece of the sectional twenty years down the line.

I don’t want that.

I don’t want to believe in the power behind commitment then have the floor beneath me fall through before I can catch myself.

I don’t want to depend on anyone else, that’s too scary; too risky.

My thoughts are too paranoid and my soul has been beaten too many times to trust that someone could come along and actually understand my conscience.

I’ve got too many red flags stuffed into my granny Fanny-Back, I’m always ready to rip that zipper open and throw a flag down once a man inches any closer to me.

You want trust? Trust this, you don’t want me. I come with too much baggage, believe me there is such a thing.

You want someone with more color, more hope for the world in-front of us.

Don’t worry about me, I’ll keep going; there isn’t a quitter in me, just a hard headed rationalist.

Too many people have stolen puzzle pieces from the art within me to fit their own.

It’s too late for me, I’ve come to terms with the defeatist thoughts of romance.

I would rather understand silence and loneliness then live the life where new hands constantly put themselves into my puzzle box and steal my pieces.

My eyelids shoot open.

I blink a few times, adjusting to my scenery.

My arms shoot above my head, legs sprawl across the bed as I point my toes forward taking a deep breath.

I smack my tongue against the roof of my mouth, the air is so dry.

I rub the human crust out of the corner of my eyes before I stare up at the ceiling and wish for fifteen more minutes.

My throat feels like is has been rung out like a damp cloth.

As if two dehydrating hands gripped around my neck and twisted out every drop of water inside me.

My voice sounds groggy and damaged.

You twist your words around mine and I lose the will to speak.

I just have to keep holding my own hand.

I have to keep pushing myself forward to understand the feeling of living.

To understand what it's like taking a fresh breath without exhaustion following.

Removing the warm fuzzy blankets from my body when the sun shines through my windows needs to be with purpose.

I need the motivation that swings my legs around the side of the bed, letting my feet come in contact with the ice cold wooden floors.

Right now I am too stuck in my own head, running solely off my imagination.

My impulsive thoughts have control of my wheel.

I am stuck on this ride, strapped into a rollercoaster that only stops once my heart-line does.

Once I take my last breath and my eye lids become too heavy.

Yet I don’t want my story to say I just took my seatbelt off and jumped off my ride.

I want it to say that I gripped the rubber handle in front of me and existentially rode through my spiraling death.

I cannot go back.

I cannot be triggered by sadness.

I cannot be influenced by death.

Who am I suppose to be?

I’m not suppose to be happy.

I’m not suppose to be sad.

I’m not suppose to feel.

Where am I?

I’m here, not heard.

I’m silent, but not active.

I’m lost, but everyone has a path.

I sit there with no emotion, ironic since my mind won’t stop. I feel paralyzed in a body that a minute ago was fully functional. It just proves that it can happen at any moment. I can be sitting with my friends, laughing, having a good time and the smallest thing can trigger my mind to constantly think about death. I feel numb, frozen, incapable of doing anything but remembering all the moments where I’ve let myself down, where I’ve let everyone down; seems as if that’s what I’m best at. I can’t stop thinking about the times where we were young, innocent and pure. Free thoughts, zero worries. I don’t know what changed me, maybe it was watching my father beat my mother. Maybe it was finding my brother’s dead body hanging from the living room fan. Not the ideal thing you wish to see right after your first day in middle school. Maybe if something normal happened to me I would feel normal. I’m just tired of having my life revolve around me helping everyone, yet no one helping me; you would think I would have learned my lesson by now. I just don’t know how to say no, like when my mom threw her “I love being rich off of my husband’s money” party and my uncle snuck into my room; I didn’t say no. I guess that means it’s okay. I can’t say or do anything when my mind no longer feels like its my own. I’m telling you this not because I don’t want you to think that it’s your fault, I want you to know that you gave it your best… your best just couldn’t help… I’m sorry… I hope you will read my thoughts.

It triggered me. I want to see the blood pour out of my wrists as I push the blade through my skin. I want to write goodbye notes and “this is because of you” notes to the people that made me who I am. But I also don’t because that’s not who I’m supposed to be. I just don’t know how to bring back my sanity... And I can’t stop tasting the salt from my tears because I have no control over my emotions. It killed me when you said you felt alone, cause then I looked around and the world turned grey and the people turned to dust. You said you were drowning and all I could think of were all the times you would pull me out from under the water, yet now I am just diving back in. I’m sorry that I’m doing this to you I just don’t know how to stop. I’m sorry that you watched me struggle as you were telling yourself not to swallow those pills, or pull the trigger, or tie that rope around your neck and make sure it was tight. I thought that when you stole those razors from my room that you were trying to help. Looks as if you were just using them for yourself. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I didn’t know that you too were hurting because my mind is too damaged.

I don’t know what I’m looking at anymore. I can’t learn to trust my own eyes since they seem to deceive me. I once thought you were the light in my darkness, but it turns out you didn’t have any light left in you. But I can’t blame this on you because I understand. You’re sad… well sad is an understatement. You’re depressed… well depressed is too general. It’s a feeling when you don’t really have any emotion. You feel so empty, you’re nothing, your mind is spinning but you can’t feel a thing. You’re dying… that’s it. You’re slowly dying forever until you realize that it is time to stop the clock. It’s time to close the curtains. It’s time to say goodbye. And I’m sorry that I can’t help you like the ways you would help me, however maybe I shouldn’t. What’s the point when your words clearly didn’t help me?

I’m forever stuck. My mind no longer belongs to me, but it belongs to the voices that I can't seem to escape from. Yet lately I haven’t been feeling myself. My head won’t leave me alone. The voices telling me that life is no longer worth living… no, telling me that life was never worth living; I just didn’t have the guts to end it, until now. No suicide pact needed. I know I’ll see you there because it would be my fault. I let the voices take over your mind too and I’m just sorry we’re not us anymore.