[not really a rant.]
i’m the kind of sick that you can’t see on the surface.
i’m not a ghost and i’m not a monster, but it’s those kinds of things that chew at the back of my mind.
i feel like dying sometimes, but i always hate myself for leaving books with the endings unread, so i don’t think i could ever bring myself to swallow those pills.
i feel like my brain is just shredded pink matter with frayed ends and twitching nerves, nothing really important or whole.
i feel like my body is just a pathetic vessel for an even more pathetic soul that wants to leave but is superglued to its carcass.
i feel like i don’t appreciate life enough, don’t deserve to keep breathing if i just spend half of my time complaining about how i don’t want to be alive anymore.
i think i might be a lot more beautiful good lovely smart funny nice than i honestly think i am, if the words of other people are anything to go by.
i hear what you say, but it doesn’t register, it never sinks in, it never fucking sticks, it just slips off like my consciousness is covered in sleek wax and nothing sticks nothing sticks nothing sticks.
i feel like my life is a hurricane and i don’t want to wait for everything to settle, don’t want to be here when it does.
i think i’ve gotten better, think i’m always improving, slowly but surely, but nothing is certain and everything is fucked and some things are beautiful and sometimes i’m happy but mostly i’m not i’m not i’m not.
i think i’m nothing.
but maybe i want to fucking be something for once.
