Have I convinced myself for so long that no one ever liked me, that now they truly don't? Did I sacrifice my place in the world too many times to now get it back?
I worked for so long just to see you tell me to come back. For you to tell me that you wanted me here, that I belonged. That you loved me as much as I loved you.
But you took it all away. In one swift motion, the wrath of God ruined my entire year. People have died and I was traumatized because of something I did constantly.
There is no constant anymore, all I get is a dull and icy pain in my chest. I don't feel you anymore, I feel what I thought I deserved, but it isn't what I deserved. No one deserves waking up every morning in anguish, with their head under water and no way to the surface. Every wall I ever put up has come crumbling down on me, and there is nothing left for protection.
I'm vulnerable and I'm lonely and every last bit of life has been exhausted from my soul.

Tell me all the things I ever wanted to hear, at all the right times.
Treat me the way I've always wanted to be treated, and promise me you're never going away.
Keep me warm at night and keep me cold in the summer.
Remember my birthday and pamper me on holidays.
Make every pain go away, and let the wanting to see you again be the only one left.
Walk away from who hurt you the most and come back to being comfortable.
Never underestimate the power of our love, and remember to rely on it in dark places.
Trust me with your heart, and hold mine in your hands.

When you're fifteen and someone tells you they love you, you WILL believe them.
You believed me. And then you left.

there's a soft "thud, thud, thud" in my wrists.
it's the lazy, wet beat of veins and the slosh of my blood.

there's a soft "tick, tick, tick" in my ears.
it's the scratching and gnawing of the world, working its way in.

there's a soft "slurp, slurp, slurp" in my mouth.
it's the quiet noise i make, swallowing back my thoughts.

and there's a sharp "crunch, crack, crunch."
deep in my chest, where my heart is.

if earth got its water from comets full of ice,
&the comets came from particles on the outskirts of our solar system,
&the comets melted after they hit our planet.
then we really are full of star dust and comet water.

dust and water older than our planet.

i'll call you baby earth.

i'm sorry.
for telling you i wanted you.
for being your equal without wanting that position.
for making you believe.
for forcing them together, and then apart.
for writing your wrongs.
for ignoring my brain.
for allowing you to implode.

i had two thoughts today.
first-what did the people that die in their sleep think about last? would they be thinking "i need to go to the store and buy more dog food in the morning." or "i wonder if tonight will be my last night." you have no idea that you are not going to be waking up in the morning, so why have a life altering, spectacular epiphany?
second-there are only so many pictures that a person can take. flowers, faces, buildings. they have all been photographed before and they will all be photographed a thousand more times.

i took a test by cory this morning. i was the color of a tomato and 100 degrees the whole time. i failed the test.

It starts in my head, slides down to my tongue, and into my hands. An uncontrollable urge to shake. In my head it's thinking. In my mouth it's speaking. In my fingers it's tapping. Everyday each of these things happen, and they are all on a vicious cycle.
I wake up-I think.
I go to school-I talk.
I come home-I twitch.
And what do these actions suggest? That I'm a swirling mass of contradicting energy with enough sense to take it out on myself? For as long as I can remember, my thumbs have taken the end of every emotion known to man.
"Leaky Fingers."
When you find an outlet, whatever if may be, things get out. It should be called an outlet for that reason, but in this case it's more like a faucet. If you tell me something it goes through a process.
"Hey."
It registers that you just acknowledged my existence.
My tongue gets fuzzy, I look up, and my brain urges me to say something. Reply in any way humanly acceptable.
Instead, I look down. My fingers lock with each other, and I shove my nails into my palms.
Everyone stands there, everyone looks.
"Hey." I eventually choke out, but by that time, kids in their right mind have come to the drastic conclusion that I am, in fact, a nut.
Bullshit.
You just don't want to stick around and wait for me to get it out. Would you still need me if I was alright? If I did not have a severe reaction to any living, breathing, thing on the planet would you still try to hold my hand? You wouldn't. The Band-Aid company would go out of business for heaven's sake. I mean precisely what I wanted to say. Although you didn't hear it, you should have seen it on my face. The fact that we are all severely wasting away, and not going down to together should be the definition of bravery.

How can people sit down, collect their thoughts, and spill their guts?
I learned to keep everything inside, to stay protected. That form of protection does nothing for you. I wish I could learn to shout at the people that hurt me and never let go of the ones I trust. I need somebody, but that dark corner of my mind creeps in at my lowest points and the voice in my head plays "I miss you, but don't waste your time."
Again, and again, and again.

He told me I was facetious, bitterly sarcastic, and not fun to talk to. I told him now he knew how it felt.

Okay, I believe you now.
I never wanted you to see me cry.
Cry the tears that you produced, the tears that you refused to wipe away.

I hope you come down with something they can't diagnose. I hope you wanted to get caught. I hope you believe. I hope you tell all your secrets.

You ask me how I have myself so figured out. Jesus, I wish I knew.

It is my belief that no two people should ever know everything about each other. If they say they do, they're lying. If they are not lying, they are looking for someone new.
No one could ever be happy inside another person's head. That brain is jumbled. It's like buying a train ticket and waking up in a city miles from your destination. Although a person may deserve that punishment, it could and should not, ever fully be executed.

If you can worm your way in, you best learn to eat your way out.

Every so often two people find each other. Not in a romantic way, and maybe not even in a good way. But they do find each other, and from that moment on their brains are connected.

In a sense, we send out feelers. Like bugs with hyper-sensitive antenna. They can hurt us and bring us joy. Once touched, there may forever be a sort of electrical current, flowing in and out of souls. 

When, and only when, a radical of any sort has severed that connection is when two people really understand each other.

Until that moment, God will make you think. He can tell you how to feel, where to go, and what to eat. A person learns their true nature in that moment of complete vulnerability.

You fight, or you flee.

I never fought. You always fled.

You made up your mind to give it all away at 11:30 at night on a July evening. I made you cry, and you made me pay. I wanted to make it right. I wanted to make it so that neither of us would fight, and so that we could see the edge and walk the other way. That's not the way you took it. You shut off while I explored the things we swore never to discuss.

This is the distance now, you won't ever let your face fall, and I'm never going to be reached again.

I don't look, I don't see. It doesn't hurt, but it works. It works to soothe the aching wounds at the edges of my heart. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for telling you the lie that crumpled our empire. You had two weeks of sitting under the ruble, and now its the only thing I can think about. It's suffocating. I hope that by telling my memory one more time, I can give it away. I would never pass the burden to someone else, but thinking that there is a person who, by taking everything away, can help us both grow is comforting.

Heaven forbid we end up in the place we once were. But you know what I learned from you? If I hold on till tomorrow, everything surely will be okay. If not okay, at least different.

I wonder how many times I asked you to slow down. If I thought of the number now, my carefully composed insides would liquefy. It was always have and never hold, but you certainly felt like home.

I'm okay now. I don't need you, and you don't need me. I have other people, and you have her. It wasn't a break up, it was the shattering of a life. When something happens that sets an astronomical chain of events into motion, all you can think about is who did it. I did it, and I'm sorry. Sorry isn't even the right word. Eternally damned. I gave you everything, and then ripped it away. You'll never forgive me, but I can forgive myself.

You used to say it was wrong, and now we are in love with the idea of failure.

Today, I was playing MahJong. I had cleared my history earlier that day, having been ashamed of looking up "diaphragm", thus losing my winning time of one minute and fifty four seconds. That's besides the point, back to the game. I was down to seasons and blue symbols, and I knew not to get too excited, in fear of fucking it up and losing. Adding games to my quietly increasing playing tally was starting to take its toll on me. Regardless of the constant nagging of being a hermit, I clicked on. The last remaining columns daunted me, and I rushed through the outliers programmed into the game to eat my precious seconds. Just before carefully removing a pair of autumn's I took a hit of Cepacol. Feeling the coolness emerse my senses, I stumbled through three more pairs. Bam, bam, bam, finished. A stunning two minutes and thirty thee seconds looked me in the face and spelled out "Play Again." I stumbled away from the desk, spinning myself into a short but appreciated whirl. Standing up and heading for my crutches that song came on. Flightless Bird, American Mouth. What the fuck does that even mean? Flightless bird? Are you serious? Is that a metaphor for a helpless, wilting girl? If it is, then hell, I'm some god damn flightless bird. Even now, I listen to it over and over and over. All my thoughts are in a jumble, they pop in and out and in and out. Ryan, Christmas presents, my neglected Levoxyl, taking a shower, three weeks of dirty laundry, having breakfast at 3:30.
Another thought I had, I moved on, but I sure am a good anorexic. It's not that I don't like to eat, I will eat everything in your kitchen in a matter of minutes and walk to the next house when I feel like it. But then there are those days when I wake up and nothing excites me. I will emerge from my bedroom around 9:30 and not eat till 3 or 4, sometimes even going till dinner at 7. Jesus, if this is what Ana's do all day I should be fucking paid. Then there's the Cepacol and the Oxycontin and the Vicodin on top of that and you have got one hell of a movie or something.
I don't even know why I write this shit out. It's all a swirling pile of crap no one even reads.
I finished this book today, The Summer of Naked Swim Parties. It started out great, lots of humiliating friendships and awkward sex scenes. Then in the end a baby dies, the family goes to therapy, and her friends ditch her for having bad spirits in the house. There's even a Greek Orthodox priest that comes in and baptizes the Jewish girl. Shit isn't supposed to get sad like that anymore. It's supposed to start happy, stay happy, and end happy. I wish my days were like that. I wonder if I'll grow up like that. Does anyone really grow up like that anymore?
I missed 11:11 again, I don't even know why I wait.
I'm not re-reading this.
Good night, aimless America.