You
and say I wear my sorrow like a crown
When you were 11 all you wanted was to be different (dark). You didn’t want friends, you wanted attitude and admirers and haters and you wanted a reputation. You wanted to listen to pretentious music and go to pretentious gigs and talk about deep, pretentious things. You wanted to do drugs and you wanted to drink every weekend, you wanted to be free and an issue and you wanted everyone to worry. You wanted attention.
And.
And now you’re lonely. You sit inside your room and you arrange your clothes (black to grey to white) and you frown because there is far too much black but then there is never enough. You reflect your mind on word documents and bits of scrap paper. Your hands ache and pencil prints into your skin, imprints like ‘lonesome’ and ‘burning’ wear like tattoos on the sides of your sickly skinned hands. You feel inexplicably sad as you stare at the calendar you haven’t moved in months. You’re stuck in July when the sun was too bright and the air was too warm but you had a friend, then. You went out then and you had human contact, then. You had alcohol and problems too but those memories fade too quick to catch. Now you sit and you cry and you curl up in your chair, bathing in artificial lights. You don’t open your blinds. You tidy (again and again and again) and everything has a place and that makes you sad. You hate waking up to perfect order but you can’t sleep without it. Your shoes go there and your sweaters go here; your work is on the windowsill and your records are in the second and third shelves only. You took down all your posters. You hate that music, hate those feelings. You hate you. Your walls are bare (like your mind) and you like it, sometimes, these white walls and scratches. You like being blank because it means no feelings but it means no friends, too, and that’s fine, you’ve done that before.
Except.
Except it’s not fine and you cry (fuck, stop crying) and you will laugh and go ‘what friends’ and you will say ‘I don’t like going out, anyway’ and you will turn down half hearted invitations and you will cry more and more and cut yourself off. Grades drop and so do friends. You find yourself staring, now, at walls and doors. Dead ends and opportunities. You count the calories in a coffee (coffee, one sugar, 20 calories) but you can’t find the X in relation to Y and you can quote a thousand songs but can’t remember a simple thank you in French. You crawl inside your shell of procrastination and isolation. You cut your skin (no relief, never relief) and you like the scars and you like the looks when people see. You like their denial and the way they pretend they didn’t see anything. The way they don’t care. You don’t, either, so you cut some more.
And then the coffee isn’t enough and it’s to the pills (so, so small) and they hype you up and you crashcrashcrash but the high is worth it (you think). You do your work and you laugh with your friends and you can’t feel your hands and the bugs are crawling, crawling up the wall and it’s so terrifying and you throw them in the bin and settle down, once more, in your desk chair with your coffee and your bruise laden eyes. Computer light keeps you pale and you're scared of the sunlight. You’d never admit it.
Apart from loneliness you do not feel. Can not feel. She tried to kill herself (so did I?) he cuts himself (who doesn’t?), they’re depressed, they’re anorexic, they’re sad, they broke up, his parents died, her mum has cancer. You don’t care. It’s all boring and it all doesn’t hurt. Your blank face, their questions (did you hear me? Are you listening? Do you not care?). You’re empty (you think) and all you care for is objects money can buy. Alcohol, pills, clothes (you never go out) and stupid, useless thing after stupid, useless thing. You are a material object and you hate yourself for that, but cannot change (will not change?). You want a pretty person who will drown with you. You want to get drunk and high and you want to cry and be left alone. You want to be a skeleton with lots and lots of problems but the problems came too soon and now you can’t breathe (can breathe, too much, stop). You’re all alone (you made yourself this way) and you spend hour after hour fixed on LEDs and dreaming up lives that aren’t yours (isn't this what you always wanted?). People hate you, and you hate you too. People adore you because you are bitter and sad and sarcastic and blunt and you laugh at stupid things and make stupid jokes and think stupid thoughts. You go from laugh to death in seconds and they don’t know your default (why am I alive, why do I breath, god, crack a crude joke) so they think it’s just you. And on your dark days they notice and say nothing and only comment when you’re laughing again.
You'll pretend it is all okay and you’ll moan after insignificant things so they’ll never know the real things. You’re a walking cliché in that you smile when you’re sad and laugh when you’re ready to die. So you shut up and put up and bathe in your sorrow when no one can see you.
That’s what you wanted, right?
And.
And now you’re lonely. You sit inside your room and you arrange your clothes (black to grey to white) and you frown because there is far too much black but then there is never enough. You reflect your mind on word documents and bits of scrap paper. Your hands ache and pencil prints into your skin, imprints like ‘lonesome’ and ‘burning’ wear like tattoos on the sides of your sickly skinned hands. You feel inexplicably sad as you stare at the calendar you haven’t moved in months. You’re stuck in July when the sun was too bright and the air was too warm but you had a friend, then. You went out then and you had human contact, then. You had alcohol and problems too but those memories fade too quick to catch. Now you sit and you cry and you curl up in your chair, bathing in artificial lights. You don’t open your blinds. You tidy (again and again and again) and everything has a place and that makes you sad. You hate waking up to perfect order but you can’t sleep without it. Your shoes go there and your sweaters go here; your work is on the windowsill and your records are in the second and third shelves only. You took down all your posters. You hate that music, hate those feelings. You hate you. Your walls are bare (like your mind) and you like it, sometimes, these white walls and scratches. You like being blank because it means no feelings but it means no friends, too, and that’s fine, you’ve done that before.
Except.
Except it’s not fine and you cry (fuck, stop crying) and you will laugh and go ‘what friends’ and you will say ‘I don’t like going out, anyway’ and you will turn down half hearted invitations and you will cry more and more and cut yourself off. Grades drop and so do friends. You find yourself staring, now, at walls and doors. Dead ends and opportunities. You count the calories in a coffee (coffee, one sugar, 20 calories) but you can’t find the X in relation to Y and you can quote a thousand songs but can’t remember a simple thank you in French. You crawl inside your shell of procrastination and isolation. You cut your skin (no relief, never relief) and you like the scars and you like the looks when people see. You like their denial and the way they pretend they didn’t see anything. The way they don’t care. You don’t, either, so you cut some more.
And then the coffee isn’t enough and it’s to the pills (so, so small) and they hype you up and you crashcrashcrash but the high is worth it (you think). You do your work and you laugh with your friends and you can’t feel your hands and the bugs are crawling, crawling up the wall and it’s so terrifying and you throw them in the bin and settle down, once more, in your desk chair with your coffee and your bruise laden eyes. Computer light keeps you pale and you're scared of the sunlight. You’d never admit it.
Apart from loneliness you do not feel. Can not feel. She tried to kill herself (so did I?) he cuts himself (who doesn’t?), they’re depressed, they’re anorexic, they’re sad, they broke up, his parents died, her mum has cancer. You don’t care. It’s all boring and it all doesn’t hurt. Your blank face, their questions (did you hear me? Are you listening? Do you not care?). You’re empty (you think) and all you care for is objects money can buy. Alcohol, pills, clothes (you never go out) and stupid, useless thing after stupid, useless thing. You are a material object and you hate yourself for that, but cannot change (will not change?). You want a pretty person who will drown with you. You want to get drunk and high and you want to cry and be left alone. You want to be a skeleton with lots and lots of problems but the problems came too soon and now you can’t breathe (can breathe, too much, stop). You’re all alone (you made yourself this way) and you spend hour after hour fixed on LEDs and dreaming up lives that aren’t yours (isn't this what you always wanted?). People hate you, and you hate you too. People adore you because you are bitter and sad and sarcastic and blunt and you laugh at stupid things and make stupid jokes and think stupid thoughts. You go from laugh to death in seconds and they don’t know your default (why am I alive, why do I breath, god, crack a crude joke) so they think it’s just you. And on your dark days they notice and say nothing and only comment when you’re laughing again.
You'll pretend it is all okay and you’ll moan after insignificant things so they’ll never know the real things. You’re a walking cliché in that you smile when you’re sad and laugh when you’re ready to die. So you shut up and put up and bathe in your sorrow when no one can see you.
That’s what you wanted, right?
♠ ♠ ♠
This was written as something to get everything off my shoulders. This is my life, in short, and all you see here is true and very much real. Feedback would be greatly appreciated on this piece especially. I feel quite alone in my thoughts.
Apologies for spelling errors etc.
Apologies for spelling errors etc.