i dreamt a bunkbed walked over green hills with tall legs that grew into a tree. it became as tall as the sky. taller than where birds could fly, but one sickly bird made a nest on the headboard. a headboard over a headstone over the grave that used to hold a bear. the bird's words shoot like shoots and the sprouts and roots that dug down, and dug up the bear's heart in it's buried treasure chest. it died of congestive failure, they said. and lack of treasure. i wondered if i'd ever add up to enough for her. i went to bed with my nose all stuffy from crying. a congestion from conversations that are never ending. always arguing. one word pilin
amputated at the shin.
and a parasitic twin.
removal only made him lonely again.
i watched it on tv.
sitting down for tea.
with two cups. but one me.
once upon a time, i was a cup of poison.
but i poured it out and i only felt empty...
i don't know why i miss what hurts.
i slept on a pile of clothes last night.
i feel sick. i took too many again. again and again.
my mouth feels dry. my heart is rapid and my temperature is cold.
there are only a few certain moment when i've felt completely alone.
and i do tonight. i do so much.
i don't know what to write. or why i want to write. i feel fucking useless.
i've been trying so goddamn hard these past weeks to be happy. to make my life less sad. to not lay in bed every day with blankets pulled over my face. to get dressed. to open the shades. to go outside. to say hi. to not hurt myself. to go to therapy groups. every day. i'm trying every day. i'm tired every day.
everyone is so fucking alone.
i sat next to a girl named summer. she told me she had a dream about me. we were cleaning my room. she told me that when she was at home and depressed, she would think of funny things i've said and feel better. she gave me a dra
i've deteriorated to only caring about things that are aesthetically appealing. i spend all day designing clothes and drawing headless deer. i act offended when people notice. i don't know what i'm doing anymore. my brother is gone. i talk about fabric and makeup and line quality. i inject myself into conversations and start new blogs and get discouraged when i don't succeed.
i used to think that the lazy emoticon was a blue butt.
filling in the slots on journals with the things that i'm doing makes me feel calm.
i don't remember how to do things, though.