I used to want to be a pyro.

I thought I had no reason to maintain this blog seeing as how I've been writing and submitting a shitton on deviantART but someone was gracious enough to bring to my attention that my blog is much more raw than my journal there...

I don't like subjecting others to a "forced" view of my shitty life. I feel like every time I press that submit button I make myself more and more of an attention whore.

I found out recently that people actually want to be depressed. Inspiration and sorts or something... Being clinically depressed... I would have to say anyone that thinks they want this is dead wrong.

Every day I go on and I'm not happy for an hour... or two... or even a minute, I feel like I've failed. Being that I am a perfectionist of sorts and EXTREMELY afraid of failure... it only gives me a reason to beat myself up all the more. All the more.

For fuck's sake a cat scratched my hand and I got depressed and wanted to cut because it triggered me... that burning flesh... that ache in my skin. I wanted more. So much more.

I truly am a special brand of fucked up.

And now you're going to watch with eyes wide to see what's left after the fire. <3

Closed.

I don't want to let you in any more. One by one I resurrect the walls to my cage. I roll into a ball and pull my hair into my face; inhale. I close my eyes and remember. Remember it's ok to feel like this. It's ok to feel.

If only we could feel something more.

She lashes and thrashes about behind the bars in my chest. Out. She wants out. She wants things her way. She's tired of being ignored and pushed down. I know what will happen if I concede.

Sex.
Alcohol.
Starvation.

Little girls can't be reasoned with.

I hate how she cries when she falls. So pathetic. She looks for comfort and someone to bandage her wounds. As though she doesn't realize it's all her fault. If only she could learn from the bitches. Go to the bed she's made and lick her wounds silently.

It is all her fault.
For being silent-

I hate her.

Well then...

It seems he's not the only one to think I pity myself. Joy.

I'm going to do something tomorrow. I don't know what yet... But I'm going to do something.

Fuck everyone.

That's how.

Meh.
I wish depression were as easy as me feeling sorry for myself.
Ugh. My family. They're such assholes.

I don't even know what to write. I just need to. Because I can't cry; not in front of her. And you're not here to talk to. I hate myself. I hate how she makes me feel. I hate how I make me feel. That bridge up the street wakes me up in the middle of the night screaming my name. That knife in the kitchen does the same.

I put a steak knife in with the butter knives. Everytime I go to grab one I close my eyes and hope it cuts me. Feeling around in the dark.

Last night I was making dinner and bacon grease popped onto my arm and into my eye. It made me feel alive. It made me want more pain. It doesn't hurt as bad as what's inside. The stuff I can't get out. The stuff I want to go away.

You know... when I left... they told me I'd go to hell. They said I'd fall slowly but there'd be no way back for me. And now... they say I should stop feeling sorry for myself and kick my depression.

How do you let go of a six year marriage that ended in your spouse choosing someone else? Six years of abuse and neglect. How?

How do you let go of a father who was never there emotionally?

How do you let go of years of molestations?

How?

How?

Death. That's how.

You

I don't know what to feel anymore... only what I do feel. Only him. Only you.

You grab my heart's attention like none other. I feel weak around you. Every thought turns to mush and my walls fall completely at your feet.

Naked.
Exposed.
Unarmored.

When you're not around... I am stricken with panic and fear. Weak. Uneasy. I want to make sure you're safe and that you know how much I love you. So... so much.

I'm getting so close to leaving. I can taste it.

------------

This morning was hell.

I couldn't sleep at all last night. Now I'm exhausted and have a house to clean. On my own. Since it's my job. I'm the fucking maid.

*sigh*

I almost grabbed the scissors and jabbed them into my chest.

But your face... your voice...they're marked on my memory and they've stained my heart... Knowing I'll be able to brush my hand across your skin... It's the only hope I have. Being with you.

So I'll be good. I'll stick around. Because I said I would. I hope you can see how much I care... even though I don't really know if it comes off that way all the time... I... try my best to be strong for you and not burden you with my problems... I know you have a lot to deal with already... You tell me time and again it's no problem... but I can damn near feel your heart sink because you can't save me from the hell I've created.

I don't want you to save me. I just want you to love me through this. We'll make it. I know we will.

The dreams... I'm worried I'll wake up screaming your name. They're so real. All I want to do is sleep. It feels so... so real. I just want to touch you and feel your skin on mine. You are mine... and I want so much to claim you for the world to see and hear and know...

The anticipation... the... dread... the fear. I can barely stand it. But in the morning it's what gets me out of bed. And it's what keeps my days from falling apart. It's what keeps my heart beating and it's what keeps me from all but disappearing.

You.

I didn't realize pastors asked for 15 year old girls to dance like strippers on church beam poles until I met you. When I refuse to dance, deny the eager few their chance. End the charade and lay the blame on me.
Push me. Pull me. See if you can fool me. Tangle me up in your rope. Make me the example as you choke on all that shit you shoved down our throats. Quietly glare as I squirm. Though, never becoming your worm, I keep my head up off the ground. I smile as your tears stream down. You can't explain why your hands are stained and my face is turning blue. I refuse to be one of you. Stare. Glare. Eat your flesh that's rare. I roll back up on my stairs and hide behind these pews. I will never be you.

Here I sit, plotting the end. Making plans in secret. Sending out cries for help. Texting friends and family members for support. And there you sit in oblivion. Smiling at me and telling me you love me. I don't know how to live with myself.