jaspiir

I have been asked why I wanted to die so badly a week ago. I wanted to die not because I felt overwhelmed, or useless, or anything like that – I have been worthless and stained my whole life, so no, those would not manifest in this way, not now. I wanted to die so badly not because I feel as if I am hopeless, and not because I feel alone. People have reiterated that they care and I understand that. I wanted – and, honestly, maybe even still want to – die, because I am a runner. That is all I have ever done. I run from memories and people. I am that person who sees the problem, who takes the problem, who analyzes the proble

I do not know how much time I can waste on words, but damn if I am going to stop writing. It keeps me here. It keeps the dreams at bay, sometimes. It keeps me mostly sane. And I say that, mostly sane, because I am pretty positive I am not. I wake up in tears, shaking, screaming, begging for any type of desperate freedom, of desperate release, and nothing I do really keeps it away anymore, not even this. And that makes me very sad, because it used to be everything I had. And now sometimes when I cannot breathe at night or convince myself to keep hope and faith and just be okay I cannot write it out. I cannot cut, anymore. Drinking barely hel

People call this an artistic outpouring but this office is so small and my head is pulsing again and I am so unsure of just what I am doing. The desk looks so dull and grey. Color in this room has been taken away and replaced with everything I see in the back of my mind. My hand is shaking and I cannot right. I can feel tears fighting and I can hear her screaming. And I know I am supposed to be writing now but I cannot feel anything but pain anymore. It is all so draining. I am so fucking tired and I am so fucking broken and I am sick of being inhuman and wrong. And my arms look so fake and plastic and my fingertips are so calloused and wor