Thursday, December 29, 2011

Like Sylvia

I could just put my head inside the oven. How unoriginal. But turning into superficial things in hope of forgetting is quite stupid but doubtlessly effective. How can these fucking things make me go numb? I don't know. I just don't know. But does numbness come with emptiness? I guess they go together. For me. For now. Forever.

And I have always been the pessimistic daughter. With a sweet smile. And bad habits. I made my mother cry. And I'll make her cry more. If she dies it will be half my fault. And I'll just put on a straight face. Because I am numb. I don't feel. How can I not feel? Or maybe I can. I just choose not to.

People. You cannot trust them. I cannot trust you.

Or I could jump off a window and plunge myself in an iron fence. Virgin suicides. It was a good book. Good movie. I wish I was a fictional character of sorts. Then everything happening will not be real. But still, it will be real to me. And what I'm saying makes no sense at all.

I don't want to go on night drives anymore. I don't want to laugh with people over alcohol then curse them inside my head. I don't want to think about anything. I don't want to sleep. I don't want to wake up. I don't want to go to the doctor anymore. I don't want to take these tablets. I don't want to write about not wanting things anymore. I don't want to go out. I don't want to lock myself. I just don't want to exist.

I don't even want to be somebody's memory. Even as memory or a dream, I don't want to exist.

I am weak enough. Maybe.

Slit both wrists and lie down in a bath tub. Then the water will turn cherry red. A cry for help? I guess not. If it is then it would be too late. You can't repair the damaged. The problem with broken things is they don't want to be put back together. Sometimes.

My right cheek hurts. And it's bruising. Fresh yellow and green. I wonder where I banged my face. Drunken nights. Yes, sometimes they're better. And I am inconsistent. I often disagree with myself. And I'm not getting the point of writing this. This is trash. I am trash.

I don't mind dying, you know. Please set me on fire.

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