I’m curled up on the fucking couch in a room that is not even mine and I listen to cheesy pop songs in hopes of feeling better – but I don’t. I never do. I know nothing more elusive than my own happiness.

I’m crying for the deaf (or pretending to be deaf) man, who sold these cheap Hello Kitty toys. You know, the kind of man or woman that randomly walks into a coffee shop/restaurant/etc., and just puts these pointless objects on your table, smiling quietly, not really asking anything of you. They just leave them there and proceed to another table. Eventually they come back to collect the things they put on display for your useless eyes, and you pretend to be actively engaged in a conversation, pretend you don’t see them. But you do. And they see you, too.

It breaks my heart tonight, out of all the stupid reasons I could think of, like my dad (oh, wait, it appears I don’t have one anymore), my friends, my boyfriend, my job (oh, wait, it appears I don’t have one anymore).

Why is it so hard for everyone to understand the way I feel, am I indeed such a mistery, a riddle that cannot be solved?

Why do I always have to walk in other people’s shoes, but they never reciprocate? Can I blame them? Can I blame anyone?

How do I deal with anything in life? I’m not ready for this, for none of this, really, for death, for departure, for goodbye, for work, for being fully grown. I’m twenty and I’m lonely, and I’m crying, and I’m lonely, and I should be having fun, should be educating myself, should be, generally, doing something useful, but instead I sit hear and mourn over a loss; I don’t know its immensity, I don’t know if depth really exists, and if it does, I never knew its limits.

Everything is slipping from my grasp – ever so quietly, ever so dimly, ever so inexplicably.

I’m at loss for words, I’ve used them all, my throat hurts from talking too much, from crying, from yelling, from not being able to communicate what I feel and this really, really hurts me. No, wait, it really, really pisses me off.

I used to think words were #1, they were everything that I ever had, everything that was given to me; yet here I am, with my 2am thoughts, listening to a stupid song called Habits, though I should’ve gone to bed.

Really, though, why am I always the one to understand other people’s problems? Cause honestly, sometimes, I don’t even care for your stupid shit, I don’t want you to reach out and touch me, I don’t want you to ask me for answers, I don’t want to know, I don’t want to know, I don’t want to know.

Jesus, I’m such a whiny little brat.

I know it’s always darkest before the dawn, but I’m fucking tired of sitting and waiting around for it like an insomniac.

I know I’ll feel different in the morning. I know I’ll forget and be me (?) again, all bubbly and funny, and nice.

But sometimes I feel like being a bad person. I need to be bad for a while. You know?

Not that I need a permission.

You’ve got blue blood on your hands, I think it’s my own…

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