2 steps back

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the morning after a breakup is fucking awful.

all that's running through my head is you. How? We were so fucking happy. I am utterly devastated and feel at a loss without your touch. How much I want to touch you, kiss you, whisper my thoughts into yours. I want to try throw you around while you actually do throw me around.

School broke up today. My mental state is fucked, but the suns finally made an appearance which I guess is a plus. It's touch on my skin is the only thing helping me not feel alone. I haven't any pretty bliss to go home to, no comfort or safety net I can nestle my pain into. When people told me heartbreak was a thing, I thought it was a crush you'd get over in a week, two max. I didn't believe in love. Until I met him, in which I'm now totally consumed by.
He controls my life, he controls the way I motion, the way I taste my mornings, my afternoons and my evenings.
I now believe in love, which makes it all the more valid to not, now that I understand it's consequences.

I'm tired.
My body has no energy and my heart has forgotten it's own pulse. It's so easy to watch someone and think of them as something to dislike. I've had this imagination, that if I were locked in a room with someone, who despised me for some unknown reason. Their hatred would soon soften, it would fizzle out because like a flock of sheep - one ought to follow the other.

Yet sheep don't have leaders, they're all the same specks of sense. All within the right range, the right shape. All shaven when need be, all cluttered to one corner of a field when guided to. They're all the same, just like small minded people. People need other people to feel sane, to feel united as a flock. But if you were to stumble across a lamb, their presence would be significantly more valuable. Not because they are more valuable than a sheep, but because they're fresher to freedom than one who has it not, one who once did have that freedom to be significant. One who is stationed to believe their purpose is to be apart of a flock, apart of a same. That it's two feet wouldn't carry on their own, that they're more significant being camouflaged into multiple rather than being divided as one.

That's what I like to think of my bullies anyway.

I'm painfully unrecognisable to him.
I'm alone, alone to this mess I'm undignified to, unworthy of being apart of.
His absence is getting more real, and his touch is becoming more distant, I don't remember his features anymore.
If you asked me to picture his hands, I would no longer be able to.

He was my escape. From all the fucked up shit going on in my head, his energy unmatched mine which made us so rare. I never understood him, but that's what made me stay, what lured me into him; to invest into him like a case study.
I knew little of him but god I fucking tried, I tried to learn him.
I was no priority or need of his, coming to terms with this fucks me up but lying to myself will fuck me up even more.
I just wish he'd told me before I fell.

I'm so lost.
I'm so mad.
With him, with myself.
I need to relieve of this pain I feel, it's suffocating. And that's when I actually felt suffocated. My head was spinning, I could feel my heart inside my throat. I was nauseous too. There it came, hurling up out of me with its acid carving the skin of my throat. I screamed, counting him in my head. Counting the times he told me he loved me, counting the times he fucked me, trying to depart the two.
You used me so badly even my skin fell with my clothes. You were more than a paper cut, more than a scar. You intruded every part of me, every inch you think you lightly skimmed, there are trails of opened stitches I tried so very hard to manage.
I screamed
I hurled my voice so high to the sky it fell quicker, harder and landed perfectly inside the pit of my gut. I felt like a yo-yo; I couldn't rid of you. I descend straight back to your fingers and curl around them just so I can get a better view of your skin.
I singed at my throat so severely you could distinctly recognise the crack in where it tore into two. My screams became cries as I watched my hands falling from my head, weak from the hair clutched around my fingers. The devastation made me pale, to see what he had done to me, what he was doing to me.

I need a new drug.
Can you believe it's July? when did I even start this cracked up journal. It's nice, makes me feel even more insane than I already do. It gives me a small dose of pleasure I guess.

People used to tell me I looked like my mom.
I didn't see it

I do now.

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