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I loathe myself enough to believe that I could discover solace by dissipating in your stomach acid. I know what I am, and I do not need to hear it from others. I am pitiable and desperate. We both know I will not go through this delusion of mine in the end – despite my wants. Not because I am as wimpy as they come…but simply because I will not in the least get a feel of the heat which hovers above the fumes – they will not do so much as waft in my direction. I am so unappetizing that your body rejects me – in every state of matter. You attempt to throw me up and spit me out, repeatedly gagging in disgust, in spite of the fact the sensation of gagging vexes you – you are so revolted that you look past it. All while I’m trying to crawl down the narrows of your esophagus. Through it all I am conscious – knowing that I will be released either way and I cannot be in you forever. That is how the human body works – in terms of digestion.

I wonder if the process of digestion reflects the human behaviour of velcroing onto others – absorbing them. Having their dear ones taste commemorated on their tongue and anatomy down their throat – leaving it there for just enough time that it morphs the contour. Just to later on desert them as if their saliva wasn’t secreting with undertones of protection, at the same time the formation in their throat goes back to normal like it was never there. No longer fitting what one would once recall as their own habitat. All that is left is the humiliating, shameful stench of saliva sticking onto the abandoned one.

Be that as it may, I am not the type of person to complain. How could I? If I have always been conscious of the outcomes of my starved cravings. I choose to be embraced in warmth before I am left sensitive to the intensified cold from the residue of saliva.

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One day my mother will not be there to save me

No one will notice me sulking around

They will not notice the hurt radiating off my body

I will have to fend for myself

I need to be strong

But for now please let me drown in my sadness

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I am so scared to start school Omfg I haven’t had this type of anxiety over school since like first day of preschool or something

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No one knows the mess underneath my pants. My silhouette is fresh— it is not what I deem perfect, but it shadows the details of my face and skin, and I am comforted knowing that.

The embodied form of me, as whole, is an exhibit of my emotions. My skin itches and it burns as a reminder of my pathetic intensity—the moments I could not keep myself firm.

I am immersed in my own discomfort— but I was the one who leapt in after all. Do I have the right to cry about it? My repetitive flaw— an immature one many say. I acknowledge them. I keep my head low aware of it all.

I am a victim to isolation and compunctuosity.

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I feel inferior to those my age

I glance at groups of girls walk past me and still feel like my child self looking up at the ‘cool older girls’ with admiration, hoping one day I can be like them

But when will that day come? I am already there physically, in present time. When will this feeling of inferiority pass?

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My pessimism is my defence— a shield if I must say so. I loathe the feeling of disappointment, yet I do nothing but wait for it because disappointment has come to be my closest ally.

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What does one do when met with a terrifying thought lingering close to them, practically begging for attention. Choosing to confront the thought would feel similar to going into battle and coming out with shell shock—at least that’s what it seems like. But if the battle is not fought how would one achieve a conclusion?

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don’t be happy for long it will not last

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I am impossible to find attractive by those near me who see every part of me—especially the ugly parts I cannot hide from them. They stand out most. Are those ‘ugly parts’ of me actually just parts? Or are they me? Is it me? Am I as whole just ugly? Those near see the truth, they see things I cannot hide by fixing angles, tilting my head, or shuffling my position at my camera. People who believe I am beautiful have only seen a lie and not me.

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My most recurrent thought used to be how I would prevent myself from getting involved with anyone romantically, because when I am in such a predicament, I feel as if I am possessed by intense, vehement emotions—so much so that I lose my sense of self. My independency, which I boast of, vanishes like a snowflake at the touch of the warmth in human skin. I am like a blizzard: uncontrollable and dangerous. I have come to realize that I am like this in friendships as well. Why do I love those around me so intensely? Why do I cover them in my frostbitten snow—perhaps that is why they are distant. Maybe they are hiding from the cold. Everyone enjoys chilly weather until they get overwhelmed by the intensity of it—the intensity that covers every bare surface of skin. Freezing temperatures cause illness after all.

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Attempting to reminisce by glancing at childhood photos but instead being met with the feeling of a tightness burgeoning in my throat and being left with nothing but melancholy, I feel like my life is a joke. I do not have much of a recollection of my early memories—even of the things I should recall. I had never felt like a child throughout the ages that I should have been nothing but a child. Instead I have been shaped strangely; I am an angry girl, an angry daughter, and an angry sister. Inflicting emotional discomfort onto my little brother, a boy with much life in front of him and so much hope. I do not want to burden him with my hostility, so why is it that I act out in such ways? He is merely just a child being a child, that’s how it should be—that’s how it should have been for me too. Somewhere along the way in my infancy I think I was shaped for survival instead of childhood, the only parts I can remember are parts in which I felt responsibility weighing down my shoulders. I can vividly recollect my complex emotions, intense heartache, and perplexing anguish causing me to asphyxiate regularly without fail. I have recurring reflections of when l would think to myself that I was grown up—when I was far from grown up.

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Me

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true peak

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My Bands Guitarist Lost His Battle

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i have no sense of self but one thing i’m sure of is that i’m a horrible person