All my thoughts everyday start with this: fuck you, fuck them, fuck this, and best of all fuck up. I am. Or I do? Maybe I don’t ask the real questions, but once I get stuck on something it decides to dig in until I am gasping for breath beyond the despair. I never knew that out in the open the air could be so thin, but I know all too well the harshness that comes from the pleading of breathing and the constipation of my lungs as my throat clenches like an anal retentive American sweetheart pushed into the outline of her life.
Now, it isn’t just that I hate everything and everything hates me. No, honestly it is just that I love everything way too fucking much and when you love anything way too much it becomes a part of you so when it starts to annoy you there is suddenly the shard missing from the facade that has become known as your life. Suddenly you are peaking around corners of clear walls because you think that the only thing you can see if the reflection of the snot racing down your face. Maybe today will be the day that someone grabs your hand, feels the erratic heart beat and push you down telling you that you are not alone. Except for the fact that this happens on such a various occasion that you see through the fictitious proverbial thrown into your life by those that are you because you are you and only you know when you are lying. The adjunct soliloquies that are fisted into your esophagus makes you sick, but you are taught to swallow. The pain in your eyes as you realize you unceremoniously swallowed 35 pounds and now you need to throw it up, but you can’t because then you have to hate yourself for being a plain Jane without no one to blame but yourself.
God, I hate myself. I was taught at a young age that there are somethings people can change and my identity became one of them so fast that I didn’t know why I hated the things I did, yet they made me sick to think about what was happening in the bed next to me. My tears have long been a visitor, now they claim fame to the master bedroom and I am left to sleep on the couch. My heart has run out of times it can beat and I am waiting for me to be airlifted into the craft so that the best hospitals in the world can figure out what is wrong with me because I have been trying for some time and I know that there will never be truth in their lies. When someone is paid to listen to you whine about the insignificant quarrels of your life and they abandon their post so you are left in the lions cage all on your own; I know I’m screwed. I always have been, always will be. My forever question that makes me occasionally want to repent into the abyss that is supposed to be my life, but is somewhat my own personal hell-hole, is how many people will I force into this whirlwind with me.
My apologies appear fictitious and I have abandoned hope of understanding the explanation behind the sorry, but I know that there are so many things to be sorry for. I am sorry that I forced myself upon you and that there is now nowhere to go but backwards. You are my friend and all I claim to be is your misery put in human form. When you see me you see tears because I am born from all the fears of those before me. I cannot claim to know the true name of the sort of harm I harbor, but at some point you will know the heartbreak. I’m sorry for everything. But I am sure I will see you sometime soon and I will shake your hand and give you a hug, please pretend you didn’t know that I was this hurt deep down. If you are here then I hear you and I thank you. I’m sorry I feel so dependent, but I am surrounded by the hurricane in my bones that I
don’t know to go, but now I am fighting and maybe sometime I can win.