I feel like a stranger in my own skin. I tear open my veins, trying to break free from this prison; but, in the end, all I am left with is blood stained flesh, a hallow feeling in my chest, and a shell of the person who I once was. (DS)
❝It hurts to let go. Sometimes it seems the harder you try to hold on to something or someone the more it wants to get away. You feel like some kind of criminal for having felt, for having wanted. For having wanted to be wanted. It confuses you, because you think that your feelings were wrong and it makes you feel so small because it’s so hard to keep it inside when you let it out and it doesn’t come back. You’re left so alone that you can’t explain. Damn, there’s nothing like that, is there? I’ve been there and you have too. You’re nodding your head.
nothing about me is poetic. nothing about how I think is beautiful; the fact that I hate myself, and want to tear open my veins, and think of twenty-two ways (and reasons) to kill myself before noon, isn’t tragically beautiful (it’s just tragic, and really fücking sad). don’t turn me into a misunderstood piece of art, and do not belittle my sorrows so your antagonist can have someone to save. nothing about me is poetic; nothing about me is beautiful. (DS)
◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘ Weeping is not the same thing as crying. It takes your whole body to weep, and when it’s over, you feel like you don’t have any bones left to hold you up. ◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘◘