I'll bring you face to face with the mirror
That your insecurities have spent years cracking, shattering
And I'll brush the shards of glass aside,
Remove the splinters from your eyes
In a way that finally shows you
You are beautiful,
You are loved,
You are enough.

I bite my nails
when I'm nervous
but I took what I had
and painted them red
to match my blood.

They say red is a sensual color
They say it is ****.
But all I see in red
Is blood and drowned hopes and pain,
But maybe pain is ****.
It's oh so beautiful for the sadist to watch me fall apart.

I have been on the edge mentally for a long time
and I think I have finally started breaking
out of my mind- pushing the edge in real life
this is terrifying

It's okay, I tell myself.
It's almost over.
My day.
My week.
My year.
My life.
When will I stop anticipating the end?
When can I finally enjoy something?
Please tell me because I need a little hope.

Our heads are the most terrible place, you know.

And I’m glad that he cannot possibly exist there, not actually. If I try to fit him in my boxes, place him in my categories, I’ve removed every bit of his individuality.

Individuality is what makes us who we are. So if I remove the thing that makes him who he is, I’ve removed him entirely.

So it’s a paradox, you see.

The boy out there in the world cannot possibly exist in my head

yet I spend all my day thinking of him.

I’m thinking, rather, of the objectivity of who he is.

I like the idea of the object-boy — it’s simple, it makes sense.

The object-boy fits in all the right boxes, he slides right into my assumptions and conclusions.

He never has a care, he is perfect and is spotless and is happy and is robotic.

He is not real.

He cannot be real. And I’m so very happy, because perfect people tend to be a bore.