i am a controversial, uncomfortable subject matter, made up of shame-based complexes.
I have too many suicidal ideations to last for too many lifetimes.
I mean, I am probably too young to be thinking about afterlife, but one can’t understand life if they don’t accept death.
I am scared of height.
My best friend died 4 years ago. He was in too much pain and the hospital put him to rest. It makes me want to die, too. Once, twice, I sat by the edge of the rooftop of this high building and let my legs dangle. I understand why people jump off high buildings to end their lives- its just so easy. I miss my best friend and I am jealous.
Ever since he died, calling anyone else my best friend feels like a betrayal to him, but I am a desperate attention seeking borderline mess. It goes like this: whoever gives me attention I’ll cling onto them, then I’ll get tired of them. I’ll move on and find another person to rely on, giving them my temporary love. Get tired of them. Find a new one. Repeat.
Guilt is a terrible emotional experience I am far too familiar with. You know the feeling that just stabs at your chest and your body just wants to give in and collapse? The feeling when your mother is ashamed of you because of your mental illnesses and suicide tendencies? The feeling when you couldn’t save your best friend and didn’t stay loyal to him? The feeling when you just aren’t a good person in general?
This… ferocious trepidation is growing inside my chest, tearing the dehiscence and splitting the heartstrings, it is more or less perishing me. It scares me, too. How I feel absolutely uncomfortable when I’m dealing alright. It’s like I’ve used to the routine of being not okay and it’s just not right for me to be okay.
It’s like a routine, like an autopilot. Autopilot engaged.
I haven’t had my daily mental break down. I am too tired to be emotional, far too emotionally drained to be. Now I am breaking down because I haven’t had my break down and it terrifies me.
There is lead in my veins and there is sludge in my vessels. The heaviness is pulling me down. I just want to lie down and let the weights sink to the ground so I can be light for once. But I still have to get up every single day bearing these heaviness and it’s breaking my back and it’s breaking my heart. I just want something to hold onto, to cling onto so the heaviness don’t bring me down.
Now here lies the truth, I am never okay and I could never be. At least I cannot without losing my own self one way or another. What even is the definition of “okay”? I don’t know who I am anymore. Being in control also means slipping out of control. Letting go also means falling apart. It’s as if apart from the emotions and the pain, there is nothing for me, absolutely nothing. This void is growing so fast and it’s corrupting me from the inside out, my chest is literally bursting and my ancient bones are creaking and my lungs are being forced out of my throat.
You ever just bury your face into the pillow and feel the vibration of your heartbeats?
Today, I wrote this down in my pretentious edgy journal:
My wrists look particularly delicate and inviting today, I want to slit them open. The ground is moving, the sky is spinning, bugs are crawling all over me and my body is covered in bug bites. I felt like pushing this man off the railway, right in front of this incoming train, because he smelt bad and stood far too near for my liking.
I cried because the girl I was in love gave me her sweater, I kept it in my drawer and it doesn’t smell like her anymore. I didn’t even tell her I love her because a girl who love girls is a sinful fallen creature according to my mother. I vomited because my mother’s boyfriend might have set up a hidden camera in our home and I have never felt more violated. I split on my favourite person because she doesn’t give two fucks about me and it makes me hate myself even more. I am in pain because my mother masquerades her cruelest act with love, her words stab at my chest and I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe and I feel like a rampage killer, except that its myself who I am killing.
The man loves the sea. He sat by the dark pool, that lead out to the cold sea, sad and solitary. This was a quiet place, the treacherous world seem so distant, far away from the sharp, hideous sound of fingernails scraping down the chalkboard, the ground didn’t creak every time he walk. He rocked back and forth to the gurgling sound from the nearby brook, a moment of peace, didn’t know what’s coming after him. Frigid, glacial sun floated above his head, the shadow of his darkness was scared. Shuddering atrociously from the coldness in his veins, he crawled and looked at the dark pool, saw a new face from the reflection, a new visage that he deplored. Petrified, he tore apart his garments, scratched his nails against his flesh until the skin broke and the body bled. He was a ghost, trying to shed his host. The man loves the sea, he dived into the bosom of his reflection, embraced it with his useless limps, immersed himself in the fathomless darkness, where he belong.
I love to steal other people’s broken pieces, to try to fulfil my empty parts. Turns out they didn’t fit. Like the moonlight didn’t belong to the moon.
Heartache bumps heavy chaotic beats. Hard and fast and suffocating. Blood as cold as the lunar night. You didn’t cause my pain, but I blamed you for it.
I’ll pull your heartstring until they split in half and I’ll lick the blood on my fingers and the blood will dry and the smell will linger. The stained red sin will forever be remembered. And I’ll chop off my fingers and throw them to the sea, so the nails can’t scrap down the chalkboard, my teeth to chatter and body to tremble.
I am a jumbled up mess of a person, the creaks of the floors and the groans of the house are debilitating and disruptive.
I ask for forgiveness, I beg for His mercy even if it’s just a flimsy bandage over a gaping bleeding wound, even if it’s as weak as my father’s rancid promises.
I know this is absurd, it doesn’t make sense and no one cares, I know. I just feel like admitting. Figuratively, this is like yelling into a void, and maybe, just maybe, someone out there would actually hear me, whoever might stumble upon this. Maybe I just feel like admitting, admitting to whoever is willing to listen.