I spent this morning telling myself that I meant something to someone.
Saying to myself that I could handle today.
Saying to myself that I could handle my thoughts today.
I don't like to lie, but It helps me stomach breakfast.
These self therapy sessions over coffee aren't helping me at all.
Sipping on the bitter truth leaves an aftertaste of self doubt.

But I still tell myself that everything is okay.
Because one day, maybe everything will be.

Please keep in mind that I'm a mix of ****** and depressed, but despite the mixed emotions, I promise I'll try my best to repress the negativity brewing coldly in my mind, letters to lovers, letters to friends, all just memories left behind, I hide behind the backs of friends right before the stabbings start, growing stronger and more painful, warping tightly around the heart, until it reaches a point of anguish where the skin starts to burn, and it seems like your love has left to the point of no return.

And tomorrow we all forget.
And tomorrow we all get along.
And tomorrow we all hold hands.
And sing our stupid ******* song.

Watch as the stream of melancholy spills from my bruised and blackened heart and flows through the veins of the ones I call friends. The ones who I need to call me friend.
And look closely at the seams that run along my chest from the cuts I made when I gave you my love. The scars, the reminders of my naive actions that keep me awake at night,
And it's okay to feel fear when you look into the portrait of macabre that I paint of myself. Will I ever be okay? Will I ever be whole? If I write poems crying for help will I ever get a ******* answer?
So now I stare at unfinished letters. Thoughts of recovery left behind. And the echos of a heartbreak never sounded so ******* pathetic. I can't seem to cope with hatred, I can't seem to cope with grief, I can't seem to find comfort in the "safety" of my memories.

I **** at dancing. I look dumb as ****.
Big crowds of people make me really nervous. And the music always *****.

But I could never turn a dance down with you. You’re way too cute.

The cavity left in my chest when I stopped believing in love has become haunted by the feeling of being alone. I've been dressing like a funeral and I've been thinking of you often and the bed that I've been sleeping in is feeling smaller every night. I've been filing voids with a fascination in the pain of my friends, but it just adds on to mine, it just keeps me afraid. I want to test the boundaries of humanity, I want to memorize your scars, I want to know that I'm not the only one who owns a haunted frame, who has a pressure on their skull and thinks of death often. I think I'm going crazy, but I don't hear any voices, I just love seeing others hurt and knowing I'm not alone. I just love seeing scars and knowing they're okay to wear. Or at least they seem okay. Or at least they seem expected. I want to know all of your fears, what you think of at night, I want to keep you safe from yourself, hide you closely in my arms, I think that if you clear out all of the smoke and you look with sore eyes, everyone's fears are the same. Because nobody wants to die. At least not inherently, at least not at first, because we both know there was a time, a moment where everything stopped being all right, and you kept distance from mirrors, you stopped flashing a smile, and you started thinking, maybe, "I'm not strong enough to fight". So you can divide the world in two. You can narrow fear down, because there are people afraid of death, and there are people afraid to live. And I'm fascinated by the moment, or maybe the collapse over time, when the human mind switches from smiling to "I'm fine".  I wonder often if I'm the only one who finds beauty in sadness, and if I am, I'm sorry for calling you pretty when you cry.

And if I am, I'm sorry for wasting your life living time.

One of the most unbearable pains is needing to cry but never being able to.