Sentiments sur papier

Memories

I am afraid of betrayal.
The reason why I don't even trust my friends. Why I don't believe in love, yet I am still searching for the one. That fear have lined my fate like ink on paper. My freedom is soaked into my own blood that I try not do drip. Therefore, I am hurting myself without knowing it, because I forget everything. Writing helps me remember. Writing is my friend, but  also my worst enemy. How can that be, a young girl who have not yet lived and loved? How can that be, a young girl who writes for a living? Or maybe I write to live.

Can I even try? I know how to do it. I know how it works. Why am I not trying? Why am I restraining myself to a page and a pen? Why can't I live what is written in those leather covered books that I wrote?

Maybe I am afraid of betraying myself. Maybe I stabbed myself intentionally to feel something and forgot everything about it. Maybe that's why a knife is merging with my back, rotting underneath my skin. Maybe that's why Im not even trying to pull it out.

But then why? Am I punishing myself? Is it why it's called a masochist? Am I telling myself not to drown into my fake world, creation of my being? Well then, it is not working, because I still don't understand.

What was I saying, again? I can't remember. I might've written it. Somewhere.