When Will It Be Enough For Me

she saved my life.

i don’t think she knows.

i don’t know that i ever thanked her properly.

she was there when nobody else was or could be and i don’t even know if she knows how close i was to ripping myself away from everything and how her answering that call saved me from myself.

she saw me at my worst and held me still

she stayed

she’s still here

i need to talk to her.

i’ll be okay when i can feel again. when i can look at myself in the mirror without feeling the discomfort of making eye contact with a stranger. when i stop feeling like i’m in someone else’s body. when i can remember my day like i lived it and not like i watched a bad movie i’m trying to recall.

i’ll be okay when every day stops feeling like time lost because i can’t remember it.

i can’t remember it, i can’t feel anything, nothing feels real and i’m forgetting life as it happens to me and i feel like i don’t belong here

i feel like i don’t belong here.

i guess that’s not a new feeling for me.

i think i flew too close to the sun this time

i want to be small again

my good intentions will not negate the collateral damage i’m causing

thinking about this quote from bojack:

"But I want you to know that your actions have an effect on others, and I hate you, and you are a horrible person, and not understanding that you're a horrible person does not make you less of a horrible person".

when flatsound said, “i’ll go to sleep at a decent time when i find something worth waking up for” but then gigi perez said, “i go to sleep so i can see you cuz i hate to wait so long.”

i want to be a sick person in peace

i don’t want to be seen or cared for, i want to self destruct quietly. rip myself apart

drink, bruise, bleed, burn, die

it’s what i deserve

i fucking earned it

i’m afraid of my death

not because i’m afraid of dying,

but because i’m afraid of what will be unearthed about me

i’m worried that my belongings, my journals, writings, drawings, will be known

i’ve worked so hard to curate this perception of myself, i’ve worked so hard to be someone that causes little friction, few waves, minimizes collateral

i don’t want my sins and dark thoughts to tarnish what i’ve built

i don’t want anyone hurting any further

i think i’m infatuated with my best friend and my best friend isn’t my partner and my partner isn’t my best friend

i’m so fucking messy

i’m dying

slowly, but always

and i miss a lot of things

all the time, really

and i worry of course

about everything, always

i’m sick

fed up, lovesick, homesick, brain-sick, twisted

if i were livestock, i’d have been taken to the yard by now i would think

if i were livestock, i’d feel less alone i would think

sometimes i wish i was ill in a way that i could purge, or in a way that would purge me

fucking sick loser