Ignore this.

Weak people are usually the ones who know exactly what the world is dealing them.

This steady refusal to accept what is real is the only thing keeping most people on some sort of track.

When I say I've "burnt out" I mean I'm exhausted. The day I burn out for real is the day I'm going to disappear. Fade away, melt away, into the wind, like so many leaves, burnt orange by the sun.

Rhythmic prose. I know I messed up. I knew I should have done the History English double major and gone to my pre-law meetings. All my teachers were right about me, I liked making things harder for myself just so I could make myself feel better. And here I am talking about how I'd like to do something perfectly instead of finishing something but doing it half-assed.

My whole life has been half-assed. Why am I so fucking weak?

The apathy is the only indulgence I allow myself so I don't completely crack.

I can't motivate myself.

I'm so scared sometimes of what tomorrow is going to do to me that I don't even want to move. That in this moment- here and now- living, breathing- I'm safe. Untouchable. If I move, if I get up...everything will go wrong.

My mother was right about me. I've spent my whole life waiting for Godot.

Crippling insecurity.

Why won't you leave me?

The boy I'm in love with loves me for me but I don't want him to see me.

He's more beautiful than I could ever hope to be.

Entertaining notions. I smoke a lot. It's a problem now. I like the feeling too much. I didn't know you could feel like that.

I feel so beautiful.

I've never felt beautiful before.

Also this obsession with smoke is becoming a nuisance. I keep burning myself on purpose. Just to see what will happen. Skin blisters in the most appealing way.

Time to go re-watch Red Dragon and hope one day I meet a blind boy to fall in love with.

All my life I wanted to be self-destructive. And here we are.

I don't want

I don't think I want to be touched. For a very long time.

The craving though...hilarious. How do you know what you want when you've never even had it, he said.

I now have 6 journals, 3 Jacobs, 2 Toms, and a very expensive taste for certain herbs.

Remember when the only problem I had was getting my poetry published or finishing Heart of Darkness?

I write too slow to keep up with my brain. I need someone creative enough to keep up with me.

I. I. I. I. I.

There are bracelets to be made, promises to be kept, and people to see. I would much rather vanish.

THRILLS, CHILLS, AND CHEAP PILLS FOR ILL WILL

I want to have purple hair and wear flannel shirts in ugly colors with black jeans and bowler hats, gold jewelry, pocketwatches, bonfire parties, boys who drink cheap beer and smoke good weed, talk about science fiction, dance to bad music, feel my teeth chatter from that good kind of nervous, feel warm at all the right times, never feel anxious about wanting a hug from the boys, listening to Stars while looking at the stars, lying on the roofs of people's cars, running in the streets with sparklers and eating stale candy.

No pumpkin smells, no splintering leaves, no winds that make you want to run inside with your head in your hands.

Purple hair and a gold-studded black leather bag is all I can do, I'm afraid.

While thoughts about touching and telling teachers about toking teem about my mind, I'll tell you this now, Kitty- There are more pills in our future.

Wonderdrugs. 

In Pete Doherty we trust.

Living on short-term solutions.

Jumping on buses, getting off buses, stumbling into streets, occasionally finding the right alley, getting lost, and sitting at the wrong train station.

Littlethingslittlethingslittlethings.

There aren't any ears to listen, no hands to grasp, no arms to fall into.

People who don't deserve anything sure do ask for a lot.

I could listen to Joy Division, stop showing up to class, hang myself from the ceiling, drink protein shakes, and "fight the good fight".

Or I could listen to The Smiths, put on my rings, finish all my work, drink like a fish and tell my mother I love her.

Stereotypical music is going to fuel all your little stereotypical problems.

There's so much Spanglish, vice, and thinking about touching. More than there ever was before. It's no longer detachment but I'm scared of what I gained. My nervous tic, my withdrawal, my anxiety has turned into a P-R-O-B-L-E-M. I need a beige sofa and a nice off-white room to talk to.

I wish I could see people as people and not images of people. But then those are my standards that I'm holding them up to. No one can get over those. Get over those and I can't handle you anymore.

I wish my imaginary friends would come back. They took such good care of me.

How Do You Get Along Sir?

I promised myself this wouldn't happen.

You're like the boys I'd imagine.

The magicians in the movies.

I'm torn between eradicating every trace of you from my life and wanting you to be a part of it.

This isn't even real.

That's how I keep it under control.

I promise myself it isn't real.

I like it best when I'm out of my mind then I can tell you everything.

Olive green dresses, shiny pinned hair, red lips, and pearly white shoulders.

Gold chains.

You're rough. All of the above meeting a jarring black denim and straight jawline.

This is all wrong. Entertaining notions...since when do I entertain notions? I can't even entertain myself.

I hope I can enjoy you for as long as possible. I don't want you to disintegrate, I don't want you to be like the leaves....I want to trust you and I don't want you to change.

But mainly...I just wish I could meet another magician that's so bohemian like you.

THIS HEART'S ON FIRE

-----AN OPEN LETTER TO THE GREAT ONE IN THE SKY-----------

WHY WAS I BORN WITH THESE EXTRASENSORY POWERS, GOD?

WHY DID YOU MAKE ME THIS WAY?

I WISH TO FEEL NO LONGER. I WISH TO BE FREE OF YOUR AMAZING GIFT.

THIS EMPATHY THAT KILLS ME AND MAKES ME CRY.

I TRIED BLOCKING IT OUT.

I DREAM OF NOTHING BUT MY FILTHY SUBCONSCIOUS DESIRES.

THEY TOLD ME I WAS GOING TO BE A GREAT WRITER, BUT I WAS ALWAYS VERBOSE.

GOD, YOU PUT TOO MUCH EMOTION IN ME FOR ME TO NOT BE VERBOSE.

SO I THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME HYPERBOLE.

THANK YOU FOR THE SHUDDERING SIGHS AND THE VULGAR GESTICULATING HANDS YOU GAVE ME.

I would just like some company that I can feel. I would just like to feel some warmth against my skin. Something to distract me. I understand that it's not time yet. But I would like to meet him soon, if possible.

Thank you.

-----------END LETTER--------------

“To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never, to forget.”

—	Arundhati Roy

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