₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎
They say to tell someone, but nobody fucking cares. Not really. "That's so sad." "I'm sorry." "I hope you feel better soon." They just say the empty fucking words and go back to doing whatever they think is more interesting. They do just enough to make you feel guilty for wanting to die and then they fucking leave you alone to sit in it. "Talk to someone." Talk to who? There's fucking nobody. Even…
I don't like sharing the things I love because people are dirty and disgusting and they pollute my pure enjoyment with their filthy thoughts and words. No, I don't want your opinions on the music I listen to or the movies I watch or the things I like to do. It feels like being buried under sludge.
Every night, I type letters to someone who will never read them. The next day, I delete them. It really is strange, this ritual that only exists because they do, because there is unmet love trapped inside of me.
It's very funny how hard I try to keep people around me when the only time I can actually breathe and feel like myself is when I'm alone. At night, when it's quiet and I don't have to answer to anybody, that's when things are best.
When I was young, I loved to take long walks in the rain. I would go barefoot, no umbrella, sloshing through puddles and overflowing gutters. Sometimes, if anyone noticed I was gone, there would be a fresh towel waiting for me when I got back. It was grounding and sacred, this time I spent with nothing but the water and no one but myself. Somehow, some way, this all changed. When did I start…
There used to be a lot of posts here. They're gone now, but new ones will take their place.