I am heavy
with hurt.
Both mines, and yours

And the hurt of
My mother,
a woman who deserves commited love.
And my father,
a boy who shouldn't have starved.
And my grandmothers,
girls that grew up too fast and too far away from home.

And the for all the children of the world,
all of us whose ability to love others and ourselves in a silly, gentle, erratic, genuine, inperfect, beautiful way was lost with boxed up toys and discarded sugary cereal boxes.

And for the world,
a once beautiful place that has been forced to endure careless brutality and abuse that is now scarred and broken and yet is still fighting for itself.

Like all the children of the world
Like my grandmothers
Like my father
Like my mother
Like you
Like me.

It's a heavy load to carry,
But I'm not planning to give in any time soon.

I can't
I can't
I can't
I can't do this
Its too much
Its too
much.
It's
too
much.

I can't think -
I'm forced to think, to think think think about it
All at once
Not at all
I can't -
I don't know
Do you?
Do you know what this is
supposed to be?
Is?
What is -
the meaning
of
everything
nothing
me?

I'm just so
everything
all at once
My mind is broken up into its smallest fragments
scrambling to get it all done,
all in this frantic insane mess, and yet
its so unclear to you
how unable I am.

I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm sorry I'msorryI'msorry -
I'msorryIcouldn'tbeeverythingyouwantedmetobe,
I'msorrythatIdidn'­ttryhardenough
I'msorrythatIforgothowtodream
I'msorrythatI'mjusta­kid
I'msorry
I'm sorry.
I'm
Sorry.

I just can't.

I would cry over spilled milk
But not spilled blood.

Because, the spilled milk is actively disrupting my linear and strictly constructed plan to make cereal and therefore also everything that comes after it, and I would have wasted milk and so prevented a future me from the cereal breakfast pleasure.

But, if the blood is my own, I can usually disconnect myself from the injury and just not notice, ignore, or press a paper against it to prevent bloodying everything and go on with my day with but a slight sensation in my finger. If its more dire, I'd disconnect just the same, but be slightly more irritated as it would now disrupt routine but still probably be fine. If not my own, then I'd really struggle to care, as I do not have much of the ability to transfer another's pain to myself via the superpower everyone seems to have called "empathy".

Me crying for spilled milk and not blood
does not make me alien.
It just makes me some sort of sick ******.

Huh.
I think I rather just be an alien.

The emptiness aches,

Only interupted with the waves of pure hurt.

You say I'm being dramatic.

But you don't know these aches of hopelessness.

The loaded weight keeping me from progressing.

The loneliness that is most prevalent when surrounded.

You don't know what is

to drown within yourself

submerged in hurt

that stings eyes when looking for hope

and makes those close sound so far away

and sinks you further and further

into its bottomless pit.

F
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            ­                                                                 ­       i
                                    n
           g

                                           d
                                                               ­                                  o
                                                               ­      w
              n

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                                        ­                                                                 ­         𝘴𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘵 !

"Quel jour de la semaine aimes-tu le mieux?"
It says on the french homework.

Well, lets see...

Lundi is terrible, first day of the week.
Mardi is subpar, practically a repeat of the first.
Mereredi theres too much too do, between clubs and homework.
Jeudi is too long, and my guitar teacher's chance to remind me little practice I put into the guitar, and everything else that doesn't matter enough to me.
Vendredi is the end, but not quite the start of anything good, since
Samedi is filled with homework and more lessons and such that eat away at me until I'm nothing more but a husk of myself.
Dimanche is when I'm forced to meet my sins in the face while trying to not let them show on my face because I cant let anyone know of these "inner battles" I'm facing.

So, which day of the week do I like the most?
"Aunun.
Je déteste tous les jours,
mois,
année.
...
Je déteste ma vie."

It always comes back to this.
I don't know why I always fall into the belief that they'll be okay
again.
Again.
Again.
It keeps getting bad.
Then it gets "better".
And I think it's really better,
But then it's not.
And
I don't know.
I hate this.

This world we live in is chaotic and messy,
and yet we expect ourselves to be composed and perfect?

How could we, when we ourselves are individual complex worlds that follow the same principles of the wider world.

How, if we are the monomers of this complex structure and therefore share its qualities -
No,
Give it its qualities.

For we are chaotic and messy
And apart of something much greater than ourselves.

So don't be so rigid,
Its not in our nature.

Just be.

How do you expect a child to do so much?

They're tired, can't you see?
Tired from doing so much,
And that "much" being nothing worthwhile
Doesn't make it any less tiring.

They're tired,
Lift them up into your arms
Where it is safe and warm,
For the weight of their own body is too heavy to bear.

They're so tired,
So lay them in bed and tuck them under a blanket
Of a thousand promises to always be there for them, never let them hurt, to always love them.

They're tired,
Just read them a bedtime story about silly little talking animals
That sometimes have troubles,
But always work it out in the end.

They're tired,
Let them have their little interminable nap,

Because they're tired.
And they deserve to rest.