And now it’s me who can’t fucking sleep despite exhaustion ’cause I’ve been sick all day, probably been sick all my life, there is definitely something wrong. I’m tired, I’m achey, my brain hurts but my heart hurts more. I don’t know how to be alone, I don’t know how to be happy and alone. I don’t even know how to stand upright in this moment or take that shower I so desperately need to dissolve in, just fizzle right up like the Alka Seltzer I just swallowed and disappear down the drain. Wouldn’t be missed, that could be easy.
I cried a lot today, because being sick gives me anxiety attacks and causes blackouts. But also because I feel alone. For every tear that hits my pillow and bloats my face I am sorry, sorry for something to someone because maybe if I were different I wouldn’t be alone now? Every decision I ever made or had made for me has lead me to this point in time. Lead me blindfolded and drunk on ideals of hope and future, what a fucking joke.
Mum keeps telling me I made all the right choices and I’m just tired because it’s all been so sudden but I’m finding it hard to believe. The choices I made weren’t hard because I had the emotion to back them up, it’s the repercussion.
It’s like this: there is this great orchestra and they lull me to sleep every night and hold my hand musically when I’m sad but now it’s only the brass section and everyone’s lungs have shrunk and weakened, now they sound awful. It’s like fingernails down a chalkboard making me retch but it won’t dull because I can’t see ahead of me clearly.
I’ve always tried hard.
Tried real hard to put my own feet forward in my own ugly shoes instead of pretending I like to wear anything other than my outrageous pair of vintage Alice McCall’s or dirty, black combat boots. I don’t want to be anyone other than me but I want to be needed, I want to be someone’s oxygen or someone’s orchestra— but what if I can’t be without being someone else altogether?
Derivative of a different star sign or heritage. Alternative parent’s or birthplace.
Now I’m crying again, I’m that crazy lady who doesn’t talk to many people because she’s been judged and hurt one too many times. I’m that crazy lady who believes in true love and trust and handwritten letters.
I’m also that sad, quiet girl who just tripped over in front of the supermarket and grazed her knees through her now laddered stockings, black mascara tears and piercing blue eyes. She just needs an outstretched palm, a smile and a bandaid but instead they’re laughing at her, not with her and she’s embarrassed. Just wants to shy away and fizzle down that drain.