melancholia ✔︎

no answer

"Kyle? Someone?" I say between salty waterfalls of bitter tears. I'm tired of all of it, and he's the only one I've really found who I can at least talk a bit to.

I should be embarrassed I'm talking to him in this state, this state of mind, this state of myself, like an overflowing fountain that never stops, never pauses, but I'm not.

I may not like him, but I don't hate him, and he doesn't seem to hate me either.

And I can't say that for everyone, can I?

Please pick up, please pick up, I silently repeat over and over again inside my head.

Please pick up. Please pick up. Please pick up. Please pick up.

It goes to voicemail after ringing out for ages, beeping sounds filling the emptiness, the silence.

The silence of being alone, purely alone.

Alone. Alone.

And it feels horrible.

I cry out exasperated and smash the phone down. I know when I light up the screen again, there will be yet another crack through the middle, another break in the glass.

Sometimes that's how I feel; like glass. Breakable, and broken. Tears spring to my eyes and they won't go away. They never go away.

I'm sick of this.

I try again. And again. And again. Every call I get more frantic, more angry, more needy, more filled with a goddamned sadness that stays and doesn't ever leave, no matter how hard I try.

The green button. The green button. My finger frantically keeps pressing the button, over and over again, going straight to voicemail every time every single time.

Every. Single. Freaking. Time.

Over and over and over and over and over again.

I don't even know how many times I pressed that button, until my finger had gone numb, my mind had gone numb, my heart had gone numb.

I fall asleep to the silent cry of tears without noticing the phone ringing quietly in the background. It becomes background music to the song of my life.

My eyes slowly close, as I cried myself to sleep, and I drift off into the world of fantasy where everything comes true.

At night I dream that Mom was still alive. That her and dad still loved each other and were happy and perfect. The perfect family. I dreamt that I was their perfect child with perfect grades, perfect friends, perfect everything and most importantly, perfectly happy.

That dream comes too many times, and brings too many bittersweet memories when I used to be like that.

I wake up with a sarcastic laugh full of nostalgic sadness.

That'll never happen.

Not in a million years.

Mom is dead. My father hates me and drinks too much. I'm not perfect. I'm not happy. I'm far from that.

Waking up is terrible, realising it's not just a nightmare... It really is reality.

Author's Note:

Hey guys... I have nothing to say, sorry, this morning. Well, maybe I do. Love you guys and remember to vote, comment and share! And I know it's very dramatically sad. Sorryyyy? 

xxx

dreamer :)