Musings of a dumb bitch

Send a chat...

I consider it.
Telling people.
But I'm not sure what I'd say. I've always hated texting, I'd rather send a message by raven or smoke signals but I've been told that this is rather out of fashion.
Sometimes I think I should get it off my chest. But if I tell my friends they'll respond, tell other people, maybe even try to 'help'.
I don't want people to help because there isn't a problem.
There is a problem though.
But I'm not sure where I'd even begin.
Life feels different, muted.
I hang out with friends and make my phone beep, say it was my mum texting me to come home. I tell them I'm sorry I can't stay longer and they know I'm lying.
And I know they don't want me there either.
I walk home slowly, gasping cold air, covering my face to hide tears that don't come.
Taking deep breaths before I go home.
Plastering on a smile and telling everyone "Yeah, I had a great time!"
I lock myself in the bathroom, sit on the edge of the bath for hours. I'll consider sliding down to the floor but I know I'll only have to stand again.
I don't crave happiness.
Staying with up friends until dawn, obnoxious laughter in maths classes, choosing sweets in Sainsbury's, sitting in the square in the dark talking about the future.
I did.
But somehow staring at the stranger in the bathroom mirror is less lonely.
Some days are simpler than others.
I can distract myself making endless meals, starting projects, pretending to  learn whatever languages are on duolingo.
But it always comes around.
I feel nothing.
Things aren't funny anymore.
The girl that makes fun of me in English, the girl that stalked my nightmares. She's white noise.
They all are.
I look at my mother and I see a stranger.
I look for God and I see the sky.
I don't feel hungry. I see myself slip away in the mirror in the looseness of my clothes.

I feel nothing most days.
Sometimes, things break through the walls and stay, sometimes they disperse like smoke and I don't run after them.
I sit, clutching my legs to my chest, listening to life slipping by.

Writing it down is futile.
Nobody will read it.
I'll probably publish it anyway.
I'll think about sending it to someone.
I might; I probably won't.
Because if I tell my friends they'll respond, tell other people, maybe even try to 'help'.
I don't want people to help because there isn't a problem.