something about dying.

sometimes I wish the world was perfect. but then I realize how stupidly boring it would get and forget about that dumbfuck idea.

othertimes I wish someone could fix the world. sometimes I wish that person could be me. and most of the time it's for those shallow reasons, like fame or fortune. sometimes it's a noble gesture but then it's not me because I am not noble.

I wish I could fix people. people are so broken, sometimes from past experiences, other times from the moment they are born into this world. it's always the classic story of "too much" or "too little". maybe "too late" or "to early". "too young" or "too old". too... something.

who started that shit? who ever dictated what was "too..." something? was it God? where is he? can't he answer my prayer or questions? or my screaming? or my sobbing? can't he?

can he fix this world? can anyone fix us?

question marks are funny. they say, "this is a fucking question, so try and find an answer." and people do. they look and look and look for answers. some succeed, while other fail. question marks are funny like that.

"am I going to make it another day?"

(I dunno. go look for an answer.)

so I do. and it's a yes, there another day of bone-grinding, of snapping two fingers together and telling yourself, "go and live. why can't you just fucking live already?" another aching day. another dreamless night.

another. and another. and another. and, oh look, another.

on and on and on.

until you die.

then what?

(I dunno. go look for an answer.)

no one could ever find one. no one listened if someone claimed to. no one really knows as far as I know. people have their own way of getting by this question though.

"Oh, honey, heaven. all good girls go to heaven."

"Hell, you fucking bitch."

"Nowhere. you're dead. ashes, dirt, dust, remains. whatever you like to call it."

maybe.

maybes really like to blow people right up a wall. then follow to drop them off a twenty-story building. and run them over in front of their children. then proceed to gather up what's left of them, and dump them the middle of the Pacific Ocean. right alongside human waste.

"hey, do you like me?"

(maybe.)

"am I ugly?"

(maybe.)

"would you help me if I asked you?"

(maybe.)

"would you kill me if I asked you?"

(maybe.)

it's not yes and it's not no. it's a

(maybe.)

I'm sick of the maybes. I'm sick of this world. I'm sick of all these questions.

(maybe you're just sick.)

am I? sick with what I wonder. could be just sick in the way that I am disgusting. that I am nasty, putrid, grotesque, not right. am I not right? am I incorrect? am I a mistake? is that all I add up to, a mistake?

don't I have a reason?

(maybe.)

I wish I knew. then I wouldn't feel like this. there wouldn't be this pain, these solid kicks to my stomach, where it spreads and everything is just a thick feeling of ache. it hurts in that way where you can't stop it. you can't fix it because you can't fix anything. evidently, not even yourself. not myself.

"... a dream is but a wish your heart makes..."

my hearts makes a lots of wishes, but they never become dreams. there isn't a lot of dreaming anymore. at least not in my mind. there's only, "I wish..."

you have to sleep in the usual way to receive dreams. you have to be in that state, that one where you border deep sleep and skimming-the-surface sleep. there hasn't been much of that for me.

I keep myself up. a fear of dreaming of things I can't understand is quite irrational, right? so no, I don't dream, not like I once did. when mom and dad slept in the same room, and me and my little sister would squeeze in between them, giggling and squirming. when I didn't think deeply like now, when things seemed less like an enormous lie.

in a way, I much prefer this. mom's happier now. dad is. dad is dad.

it still hurts to remember though. it still hurts to trace those scars, the ones no one can see, the ones they can. it still hurts because I can't let go yet. because somewhere inside of me, I still want things to go back. to go back where things were simpler, where everything was black and white.

but where we are now, it's all gray. the grays range, darker to lighter, but nonetheless it's all gray.

that's what I understand about now. we have colors to seem different. to seem... less gray. all flashy, so many, so contrasting. our now. colors.

"... this had nothing to do with you... it was our fault."

I cannot deny that it was their fault. but it still affects me. the words, the chain of events, the anger and the distrust. it hurt to think something so dear and so real...

...began to vanish.

it makes me wonder if that's what caused me to be like this. my thoughts; where all good things must come to an end sooner or later. where I might as well not even begin things. save myself all the energy and hurt. the ache and pain.

I regret turning to a friend when I found that journal. I came across a diary if my mom's. it was dated a few month before my birth. circled around my dad and me. and the future. things that messed me up. things that pulled out those stitches and reopened forgotten wounds.

she didn't understand. it was a "oh. I'm sorry that happened. I'm really sorry." and then we forgot about it. she didn't really care, as expected. then I scolded myself for opening up, for saying anything in first place. because it seemed all that amounted to was some wasted energy and embarrassment later.

I regret turning to a boy, spilling everything hurting within me while in a fit of ache. trust, I learned, should not be given so easily. but he claimed to have the same situation. same scars. same battle. and it seemed... like we could fix each other. he promised not to hurt me. he promised even as I told him I knew he would.

and in the end, he did.

they were lies. he never really cared, just played the part of a person who cared. patched me up with faux band-aids. and I fell for it. how silly of me.

let's not do it again. let's not trust. let's not open up, no, you have to curl tighter, don't reveal anything. be closed. be that or be a open, let them feed off you until you are an empty shell of that smile you wore so often before. then you can paint them back on. paint those smiles back over your lips.

no. you can't do that. what you can do is try for others. help them. Support, be loyal, gain trust and listen. forget yourself, you're never going to make it out anyway. you don't have something you live for. you're just wasted space. wasted air. wasted energy. what a waste.

I can't fix anyone. look at that, I guess I can't do that either. well. what else is there? if I can't fix myself, what is there for me? what.

it's always been funny for me. I've never seen myself doing anything in the future. never seen myself having children, or getting married, or getting a job, or being successful, or writing a novel, or teaching, or nursing, or even just.

existing in the future.

and maybe I'm accepting the fact that...

...maybe I don't have one.

it hurts. losing a lot of hope. losing a lot of faith. just losing hurts a lot. I don't want to hurt anymore. it's exhausting just to keep going. just to be there another day. just to keep breathing, not to live. not living. just. breathing.

I'll be honest. there's a lot of colorful pills in the bathroom right now. all sorts of colors. white, pink, blue, red. all flashy, so many, so contrasting. pretty. they probably don't taste pretty though.

you never really know until you find out.

I'm curious.

you guys have your future. your dreams. your plan. I don't think... I do. if I do, I can't never find it. no matter how much I look and search and look and search. never find it. I'll figure it doesn't exist.

I'm not going to kill myself. not yet at least. if you guys care to know, I'll send my last goodbyes before it happens. if it ever happens. usually I end up not doing it. but I get close. not enough to induce worry, but I have thought about it.

I feel meaningless. worthless. like those add-ins and fillers. like background noise. a waste. maybe that's just me.

(maybe.)

you've probably just skimmed this. I accept it. this probably doesn't mean much to you anyway. that's fine. that is the most common reaction from people anyways. feel free to ignore. I'd prefer it. and. I'm sorry if that selfish bitch side of me has come out. I try my best to hide it. there are slip-ups though. but thank you for opening this, at least.

nighttime gets me low. being by myself gets me low. I'm alone a lot. everyone is, most of the time.

you guys don't know me. this is my note to say, "yes, I am fucked up. I am broken and scarred. I am not happy. I am not okay. I don't think I ever will be. at least not before I'm pushing up daisies." this is the truth. this is from me. so. does this change anything?

I hope it doesn't.

but at the same time. I hope it does. if you understand. if you care.

maybe you don't.

and that's okay. it is. okay? okay.

I'm done.