"Every window on Alcatraz has a view of San Francisco."- 'Girl, Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen
I sit around at night not able to sleep, thinking of a million things I want to write untill it feels like my head will explode if I don't and then I come to do it and there's nothing there. If writing did shit I'd be cured by now, or maybe I'm just crap at it. It's not just the old self-doubt, that would be too nice, it's like I have to force believe that I am crap at it. GIVE UP. But I know I never will because although I want validation, deep down I do it for myself. I NEED it. In the way that people need air and food and water I need words to come out of me because if they don't then I don't exist. And it's bloody hard to constantly be creative that sometimes I just sit down and write a fucking torrent of what ever's going on in my head. You probably hate me for it, I know I hate myself. It triggers that whole too much debate. You're taking up too much space. I get that after an unspecified amount of time being loud and fun and all those other things, I get the too much voice and then I just go back into myself and don't go out and talk and socialise. I don't know which side is the real me, not that it would make any difference.
Maybe I should bitch about how crap everybody seems to be treating me. You go to hospital and get forty stitches but you get let out the next day. No big deal really is it? They ask if I tried to kill myself and I say do, because I didn't, and that's that. To be honest I would give anything to be outright suicidal. That's so much easier to explain, so much more likely to get taken seriously. But no, I'm a borderline, we manipulate people, when we say we want to die that really means GIVE US MORE ATTENTION. Bollocks. I don't want fucking attention, I want action, they're not the same thing. But anyway, back to the suicide thing, it's much harder to explain to people that you just don't care one way or the other. I'm alive. I'm dead. No difference. Don't especially like either option. I guess lining up fifty asprin and spending the morning taking them would be one way of accomplishing something, not that I would, but I might, but I wouldn't. The dead don't suffer and by God I need, want, deserve to suffer.
It's so easy when you don't sleep to think of every stupid thing you've ever done. All the people you've fucked over by being you. This poisonious, terrible thing that seeps through people's lives and destroys them. But they don't understand that it's only because you deserve it, you want their contempt, when you are walking down the street you are aching for some stranger to yell something at you, to hit you. You know people will end up hating you and leaving you anyway so you make it easy. I hate you but please don't leave me. I love you oh my God you're the greatest person I've ever met two weeks later they're gone and you secretly want to kill them. The angry heart,
You feel so violent all the time, in shops you want to smash displays, you want to hit people on the bus who are talking too loudly. It's not really because you hate them but just because the colours and the noise are bothering you. Red doesn't stay red, patterns change, faces come out of walls, your own thoughts come out of the mouths of the old women chatting on the bus. You cry for no reason except every reason. You're not sad but something's missing, you're just empty.
You laugh when you think back to how you used to cut yourself. Now it's useless unless you need stitches and a blood transfusion. You want the real fucking damage, not some 'release'.
The only reason you're still awake is because you're terrified of sleep. It's bad enough having nightmares of things that have happened to you, but things that haven't, or things that maybe have that you don't remember, how fucking terrifying would that be.
But none of this matters, really. Because it's just your personality. You're not mentally ill, you're just a faulty item that you've lost the receipt for. Back to the whole suicide debate then if that's the case, and this is it, forever, then why not just end it? Or why not drop the act and go out there and be completely fucking mental. Scream at the people who are talking too loudly. Smash the walls that won't keep still. Swap food for vodka and night for day.
Because for some bizarre reason you actually think you're worth something more. Do you really? Stop bullshitting yourself. You're completely unloveable. You're FAT. You're ugly.
And by the way, your poetry sucks.
Maybe I should bitch about how crap everybody seems to be treating me. You go to hospital and get forty stitches but you get let out the next day. No big deal really is it? They ask if I tried to kill myself and I say do, because I didn't, and that's that. To be honest I would give anything to be outright suicidal. That's so much easier to explain, so much more likely to get taken seriously. But no, I'm a borderline, we manipulate people, when we say we want to die that really means GIVE US MORE ATTENTION. Bollocks. I don't want fucking attention, I want action, they're not the same thing. But anyway, back to the suicide thing, it's much harder to explain to people that you just don't care one way or the other. I'm alive. I'm dead. No difference. Don't especially like either option. I guess lining up fifty asprin and spending the morning taking them would be one way of accomplishing something, not that I would, but I might, but I wouldn't. The dead don't suffer and by God I need, want, deserve to suffer.
It's so easy when you don't sleep to think of every stupid thing you've ever done. All the people you've fucked over by being you. This poisonious, terrible thing that seeps through people's lives and destroys them. But they don't understand that it's only because you deserve it, you want their contempt, when you are walking down the street you are aching for some stranger to yell something at you, to hit you. You know people will end up hating you and leaving you anyway so you make it easy. I hate you but please don't leave me. I love you oh my God you're the greatest person I've ever met two weeks later they're gone and you secretly want to kill them. The angry heart,
You feel so violent all the time, in shops you want to smash displays, you want to hit people on the bus who are talking too loudly. It's not really because you hate them but just because the colours and the noise are bothering you. Red doesn't stay red, patterns change, faces come out of walls, your own thoughts come out of the mouths of the old women chatting on the bus. You cry for no reason except every reason. You're not sad but something's missing, you're just empty.
You laugh when you think back to how you used to cut yourself. Now it's useless unless you need stitches and a blood transfusion. You want the real fucking damage, not some 'release'.
The only reason you're still awake is because you're terrified of sleep. It's bad enough having nightmares of things that have happened to you, but things that haven't, or things that maybe have that you don't remember, how fucking terrifying would that be.
But none of this matters, really. Because it's just your personality. You're not mentally ill, you're just a faulty item that you've lost the receipt for. Back to the whole suicide debate then if that's the case, and this is it, forever, then why not just end it? Or why not drop the act and go out there and be completely fucking mental. Scream at the people who are talking too loudly. Smash the walls that won't keep still. Swap food for vodka and night for day.
Because for some bizarre reason you actually think you're worth something more. Do you really? Stop bullshitting yourself. You're completely unloveable. You're FAT. You're ugly.
And by the way, your poetry sucks.
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