My head feels like cotton.
My limbs are made from wool.
My heart is plastic.
And my soul is easily burnable wood.

I am still inside
But, some days, the person I think I am stands back and watches the truth.
I observe a person I don't know.

She is a monster
That girl who lives in my body.
She wants to completely destroy what I carefully built

I try to scream
But, no one hears the voice of the wind
They’ve all forgotten me and are welcoming her into their embrace.

Will I reemerge
Or will that girl swallow me whole?
Is it possible to one day return to the person I was before?

Emptiness is what’s best.
Emptiness is what’s desired.
Happiness goes and sadness comes.
But the emptiness just stays there.

Isn’t the predictability of that better than anything else?
Why should I risk being happy when I know it will end?
And when it does, oh how it’ll hurt
So tell me, why would I set myself up?

They don’t know what happened.
They don’t know what’s in my mind.
And yet they have the audacity to try and fix me.
They try to make the decision that is supposed to be mine.

For a time I stayed true to the person inside.
Then I gave in and for the sake of the people outside, I lied.
I pretended to forget and made a bubble of content.  
I turned a blind eye and when my demons came I peacefully slept

Then the nightmares came back and so did the paranoia.
But no one could know because then they would ask.
All those memories have to go, but for a while, I’ll keep them close.
I’ll allow my mind to be caressed by my old sinful friends that I want so much to be dead.

Later, when I bury them all, I’ll line the exterior of my soul with protective poison.
And inside? Well, there'll be absolutely nothing.
I’ll become empty, just as desired.
Unfortunately, I know that’ll leave room for the ghosts.

07/14/2020
02:05am
Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you myself.
clapping ensues
Thank you, thank you. First, I’d like to thank my mother who, no matter how repetitive and annoying my rants are, listens to me always. My sister, for keeping me humble and showing me that, no matter how cool I think I am, she's cooler. And my lovely fiancee who I’ve mercilessly tortured with my indecisiveness, stubbornness, and overall bitchiness. Thank you for loving me. Don’t know why you choose to go down this path but I’m very grateful.
Now, I really didn’t think I’d make it to this age so relatively unscathed. Not to say that I don’t have my fair share of relationship baggage, emotional scarring, childhood trauma, and a wild collection of bad decisions...but I honestly thought it’d be a lot worse. Could be dead! Ha ha ha…. Right, not funny. Death jokes don’t seem to be a crowd pleaser. Hm. Who would have thought?
Anyways, I’m twenty years old now. Basically almost on pension. I wanted to have a good record of my twenties and so decided to commit to keeping a journal. I was going to write an entry on my birthday but didn’t and here I am, more than a little late.Don't know how late exactly because I don’t really want to count write now. Also, I wanted to do this on paper but I hate hand writing things and J said it's better to do it online. Who’s J you ask? Well, J is my dearest cousin who I’ve very recently befriended. We’re about two weeks into it and already he’s had the most terrible influence on me. It’s shocking really but what can I say? He’s got a way with words and he wears all black.
You know how they say that drunk words are sober thoughts? Well I think the sleep deprived mind is also quite the truth serum. The words are a bit more coherent. And I can type without spelling mistakes! Mostly.
I think I can be quite clever with words. I really like my own original quote about history that I wrote to that one guy on whisper. And then my gold phrase about diary entries being like pictures of our thoughts. J appreciated that one. I am truly a genius. A remarkable but undiscovered philosopher of the 21st century. I am also very humble.
I am such a terrible procrastinator. I was supposed to write a thing in January for New Years and I still haven’t. It’s been more than half a year. What is wrong with me? Like seriously. What kind of person does this?
I’m tempted to start a blog. I feel like I’m entertaining enough for that.
I just looked up how to start a blog and it seems not that difficult. But I’d have to buy a domain name and website and a bunch of stuff and that’s like a commitment so I don’t know. Maybe. I also need to open a credit card. Preferably American Express.
And who even reads blogs? I guess some people do…. Just because I don’t doesn't mean it isn’t a thing that people do.

Where do broken things go when they can’t hide anymore?
When they can’t conceal the cracks and the holes that cover them from head to toe.
I need to know, so to that place I can go.
I just can’t hide my scars anymore.

Those memories are ghosts, residing in the dark corners of my mind.
They’ve dulled my life to gray and I’m unable to see colors of any kind.
Flashes of pain decorate my eyes, but no one seems to see.
I continue to hide my truth, don’t know how else to be.

I claw at my body, nails breaking through layers of skin
Trying but miserably failing to erase the horror within
Rivers of tears fall upon my wounds and leave them scorched
Day by day, my misery is reinforced.

I feel myself slowly dying year after year
But I’m dragged back to life by my own shrieks of fear.
I stumble around with a foggy head
I don’t bare my heart to anyone, I show a fake smile instead.