dream dialogue:
"why does he love me?" sobs rock my chest between the cracked gasps for air.
"he doesn't." a stern voice states flatly.
"why does he keep coming back then?"
"you're the one crawling on all fours back to him. you're the one crying your pillow until it's a damp rag. you're the one who's coming back to him." he states again, tone more vague.
"but he loves me and that's all that matters." a weak yellow smile drips off of my lips.
"he's cheating on you, kissing, loving other girls and beating your heart to a bloody mess."
"but it all ends with an i love you."
"he doesn't love you."
"he does. he's making me sick and tired and worn out and i love him for it. i'm being burnt by both ends and i want every fibers of this body hurting while so."
that's sick i know, but... can't i be loved like anyone else? i'm hopeless and hollow for affection that i'll never acquire; a satisfaction a friendly 'ily' won't quench. i get sick over thoughts like those. i swear my stomach churns and cries along with my eyes whenever i write or hear the phrase 'love me' because sometimes... i want to scream that so flipping loud that it hurts; me and everyone.
i've been desperate before but not like this. this scares me, love stories make me cry and want to weep and be numb all day. i know i'm being emo-ish [i hate that word and all that it stands for now] and spilling my insides like every good little emo wannabe should but honestly i couldn't care less, things like the ones running through my head are too scary to leave intact, it frightens me not knowing what's happening within my own head. i know i'm not okay in my head because it hurts my heard and mind to be this alone, my mother said that thought is a 'wrong thought' a thought that's so unfamiliar and strange. i know i'm being pathetic but i have to vent somewhere and not keep it hidden; i can actually feel my heart about to burst against my chest because of the bile hiding in my throat.
i want someone to steal me away, to hug me when i'm crying about the stupidest things, someone who won't call me crazy or think i'm a strange socially-awkward girl who is basically an adult bt doesn't know shit about the real world. i don't know how to compliment people or family members, or be graceful, or even mutter a fucking 'thank you'. i'm jus this head-sick girl who isn't real to anyone, you, herself and the rest of the world.
i want to bruise, to hurt to feel alive. i have these girls in my head, fiction girls who suffer because of my desperation, who die on the inside because i want to shriek and bite my tongue off; they screamed , drink, love and hurt for me. and they have everything i'd ever want but i keep torturing them to be more pretty and more messed-up. they love the wrong boys and keep coming back i like i want to; they openly break and crumble in front of everyone like i want to.
they're living my screwed up dream life.
it scares me... because these girls are more than a work of fiction nowadays... they have names, they know what love is, each girl has her own story but none resemble mine.
but they always end up the same, bruised, shattered, broken or bleeding.
sometimes i see them suffer and actually start to speak out their dialogue and cry with them.
they're all sick pretty broken girl and they're a part of me. the part i tried to talk about to my two best friends a couple of years ago and went and got laughed at since the first sentence.
I can't stop thinking about those girls; so many of them over the years... almost 8 or 9 years building up and molding new girls while forgetting so many others.
i could give you at least ten names now but you already think i'm crazy enough, yes?
but i still have my grip on reality, for now at least.
there. now you know what goes on in my mind 80% of the time. And yes. Those girls' lives are laced with every band I listen to and adore.
but i frankly don't give a damn. :cute:
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