Vultures And Other Vulnerabilities.

Depression: Fragments of Feeling.

Sometimes I can feel my bones sharpening into disclosed shrapnel, ready to plunge through ligaments in the subtle reminder of what pain feels like. Ironically, my body forgets how much of it I already know-

Panic attacks are the moments when I can really decipher those who know me well from those who think that I am a saltwater scar... I'm sorry I've marked you-

I know loneliness so much that being with people is the most struggling ordeal I am forced to face-

Self-discovery: I have a birth mark the shape of a paint splatter- or a blood clot, on the back of my thigh. I wonder if it forgets it's a part of my skin, after 16 years of me ignoring it-

I had always referred to god as someone who might make the sadness go away, but reliance is part of what hurts me so I guess, I gave up on religion because I was so sure it was beyond ready to give up on me.

I love nature to the point of fearing its opinion of me. I hope it doesn't see me as a threat, as someone whose only wish is to bring forth decay. I really am paranoid. Do you? See?

I have never fallen in love with someone, yet there's no doubt in my mind I know exactly what love is-

The Japanese word "Karaoke" translates to empty orchestra, I wonder why people bother leaving something so complete so hollow. It hurts to think about-

Sometimes, we abuse things that are supposed to help us. Ironically, I keep abusing myself-

Your death is something that even winter cannot freeze over. It's been sixteen years now, but still blue skies look like loss.

Burping makes me feel ill even though it's simply recycled air. I guess it reminds me that my lungs are working, despite my attempts to make them stop-

Scratching is my form of self-harm, but people see the raw marks as someone putting their mark on me. Thus showing, that self-destruction can look a lot like passion.

When you drown, the last moments are supposed to be the most beautiful. Yet still-
Imagine how upsetting it must be to wake up again, surviving, when you were hoping the struggle were over?

One of my friends and I speak a lot about how one of the few things we take comfort from, is simply in knowing that suicide is always an option. We don't see that as being depressed.
We see it as extended freedom-

I am still trying to think of a way to tell my family that I was bulimic for a few years, but if that is something I can keep from them, I wonder what suffering they keep from me.

I accidently said "It's not me it's you." When trying to explain how waves of happiness rarely overcomes me when I think of him. I don't want to blame my agony, on someone other than myself-

I realized that this letter fold heart has so much more to bare forward, like a ship coaxing for land. I am a starving sailor, but I long for a death at sea.

My favourite word is "succumbed" it's a calmer way of giving up-

I lost all respect for myself on the day I let him kiss me. I know now, to only give myself to those who are going to stay, even though I know not a lot of people will.

I read romances because they make me feel more real, they make me see something better than this... empty Orchestra-

I look at ripped jeans and am reminded of self-harm cuts.

I promise I am okay. I think I am anyway...

Whenever I feel full I have to fight instincts which tell me to throw up. 90% of the time, I win-

My favourite type of punctuation is a semi-colon. They make me feel strong. Illusions are funny like that.

"Loneliness is still time spent with the world." – Ocean Vuong.
Yet why do I still want to leave?

"The great art of life is through sensation, to feel that we exist even in pain." – Lord Byron
My pain is numbed to feeling normal. Does that mean I really exist?

Sometimes... I make myself sad.