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Description
"I tell my friends about you. I tell them that you're my sweet, wonderful kid with a big heart. But you're just so unhappy, all the time. You're just so sad. Why?"

I think I'm really sad this week, but I don't know, because I don't usually know anything about myself. I'm really bad with that kind of thing. I get lost in another persons eyes all day, eyes that don't even look back. I'm afraid of mirrors because I start to worry that I'm actually the reflection. (?i ma). and i'm that girl who gets more bored with people around her everyday, so i guess i should keep moving. but no, i never get sick of you. never of you. and i sort of think sometimes that there should be words in peoples eyes. sort of like a newsfeed, flying by in their irises, so that even idiots can see what a person really feels. because nobody is really good at that anymore.
reading other people.
i'm getting lost in my own head, and i'm starting to fear that it means i'm going crazy, or maybe i always was crazy, or maybe i'm a visionary. i took a survey somewhere that says my aura is violet with a red overlay, that i'm going to change the world (but i think that's only if i can get rid of the red, get rid of all the pain) or maybe just hide it, i don't know. i read so that i don't have to talk much and get caught up with stupid news in a stupid world and i don't get nervous around new people because i am monotone and have a sense of humor, so people tell me i should write a story or draw a comic and i do
i do.
and i must be honest, i can't wait to get the fuck out of my own bedroom. i can't wait for you, you fucking idiot. and i'm that person who says why, why, why, you. why, out of everyone, must it be you, and i'm that person who knows that love is stupid and love is bullshit, and yeah, i might fuck around a little bit, but that's because i'm a self destructive girl in a self destructive world who's trying to pretend that she can feel something sometimes but she knows that she can't because she has abandonement issues because of hermymymy my stupid fucking
father.
i lay towards the wall every night before i fall asleep (if i fall asleep) and think about twenty foot tall black monsters with red eyes, and faceless men wearing suits, and women with mutated faces reaching for me in the night, but i'm too busy staring at the wall to care that i might die soon. because that's what you said-that it's where you'd sleep. you get the wall side, so you can watch for monsters and i guess i'm some kind of human shield or something, but that's okay, because if a guy comes into our bedroom with an axe in the dead of night and kills me while i sleep, you might have a fighting chance. or maybe this is just paranoia.
whatever.
anyways, i stare at the fucking wall. my blankets sometimes move around me, like they know you're supposed to be there. and i stare and think of how unfair it is, because so many people take touch for granted. and i think about what it would be like to run my fingers over your cheek, or your shoulders, or stomach, and this is when my head starts to swim and my eyes go into their own version of trippiness, or maybe that's just the narcotics, i don't know.
i don't.
i have this watch that looks like a record player. it's worth fifty dollars. i stole it. you know why? because i wanted it, that's why. and all i can think about it breaking it until it doesn't work anymore and wearing it around like i'm some kind of swanky fellow, and telling people that i have all the time of the world, and telling neigh-sayers to fuck off because i'm better than them. i'm a no good slutty fucking-theif who gets high to escape the lows, and i can't fathom a reason why you'd love me, not that you say you do, but sometimes i feel it when you're quiet on the other end of the phone, or when you add extra dots to your sentence structure, or when you say things like 'really?' and i can hear it in your voice, even if you think you aren't saying it. or maybe that's just me pretending.
i don't know.
and i feel like that's what makes me beautiful. that i think of monsters trying to kill me while i fuck you, that i get tattoos just in case my friends all die or leave me, and i can look back and say 'i got that for somebody i once loved' and i never regret anything i do, because regret is a fools game. and i think my sunken eyes say a lot more than those around me have the capacity to understand, and this bothers me, so i lash out at them and try to stay alone. or maybe i lash out at them and go out as much as possible. whatever. what i'm getting at is; this is who i am, i guess. are you as confused as i am? good. the idea wasn't to hold your attention. the idea is never fucking to hold your attention. i don't know who I am, why should i?
and somebody walks up to me, crying, everyday, because i'm a great listener.

Or something.

Description
"I tell my friends about you. I tell them that you're my sweet, wonderful kid with a big heart. But you're just so unhappy, all the time. You're just so sad. Why?"

I think I'm really sad this week, but I don't know, because I don't usually know anything about myself. I'm really bad with that kind of thing. I get lost in another persons eyes all day, eyes that don't even look back. I'm afraid of mirrors because I start to worry that I'm actually the reflection. (?i ma). and i'm that girl who gets more bored with people around her everyday, so i guess i should keep moving. but no, i never get sick of you. never of you. and i sort of think sometimes that there should be words in peoples eyes. sort of like a newsfeed, flying by in their irises, so that even idiots can see what a person really feels. because nobody is really good at that anymore.
reading other people.
i'm getting lost in my own head, and i'm starting to fear that it means i'm going crazy, or maybe i always was crazy, or maybe i'm a visionary. i took a survey somewhere that says my aura is violet with a red overlay, that i'm going to change the world (but i think that's only if i can get rid of the red, get rid of all the pain) or maybe just hide it, i don't know. i read so that i don't have to talk much and get caught up with stupid news in a stupid world and i don't get nervous around new people because i am monotone and have a sense of humor, so people tell me i should write a story or draw a comic and i do
i do.
and i must be honest, i can't wait to get the fuck out of my own bedroom. i can't wait for you, you fucking idiot. and i'm that person who says why, why, why, you. why, out of everyone, must it be you, and i'm that person who knows that love is stupid and love is bullshit, and yeah, i might fuck around a little bit, but that's because i'm a self destructive girl in a self destructive world who's trying to pretend that she can feel something sometimes but she knows that she can't because she has abandonement issues because of hermymymy my stupid fucking
father.
i lay towards the wall every night before i fall asleep (if i fall asleep) and think about twenty foot tall black monsters with red eyes, and faceless men wearing suits, and women with mutated faces reaching for me in the night, but i'm too busy staring at the wall to care that i might die soon. because that's what you said-that it's where you'd sleep. you get the wall side, so you can watch for monsters and i guess i'm some kind of human shield or something, but that's okay, because if a guy comes into our bedroom with an axe in the dead of night and kills me while i sleep, you might have a fighting chance. or maybe this is just paranoia.
whatever.
anyways, i stare at the fucking wall. my blankets sometimes move around me, like they know you're supposed to be there. and i stare and think of how unfair it is, because so many people take touch for granted. and i think about what it would be like to run my fingers over your cheek, or your shoulders, or stomach, and this is when my head starts to swim and my eyes go into their own version of trippiness, or maybe that's just the narcotics, i don't know.
i don't.
i have this watch that looks like a record player. it's worth fifty dollars. i stole it. you know why? because i wanted it, that's why. and all i can think about it breaking it until it doesn't work anymore and wearing it around like i'm some kind of swanky fellow, and telling people that i have all the time of the world, and telling neigh-sayers to fuck off because i'm better than them. i'm a no good slutty fucking-theif who gets high to escape the lows, and i can't fathom a reason why you'd love me, not that you say you do, but sometimes i feel it when you're quiet on the other end of the phone, or when you add extra dots to your sentence structure, or when you say things like 'really?' and i can hear it in your voice, even if you think you aren't saying it. or maybe that's just me pretending.
i don't know.
and i feel like that's what makes me beautiful. that i think of monsters trying to kill me while i fuck you, that i get tattoos just in case my friends all die or leave me, and i can look back and say 'i got that for somebody i once loved' and i never regret anything i do, because regret is a fools game. and i think my sunken eyes say a lot more than those around me have the capacity to understand, and this bothers me, so i lash out at them and try to stay alone. or maybe i lash out at them and go out as much as possible. whatever. what i'm getting at is; this is who i am, i guess. are you as confused as i am? good. the idea wasn't to hold your attention. the idea is never fucking to hold your attention. i don't know who I am, why should i?
and somebody walks up to me, crying, everyday, because i'm a great listener.

Or something.