No one has ever broken my heart.
Most would say that’s a gift,
but I am not sure.
Maybe it is not that my heart has been broken
but I’ve never let myself be close enough to anyone
for it to be broken.
At night before I sleep
I think of what would happen if I were to be
*****.
If my parents were to
die
suddenly. If
I were to die.
What would happen?
Would I be able to take care of myself,
or would I wither away? Who would I become?
Would my friends care? Which ones?
Maybe I feel unloved, but I don’t.
I have so much love in my life that I can’t give.
I receive but cannot replicate.
I feel it but can not find the place in my heart to give it.

Feeling alone in a crowded room.

That’s what it feels like but
in my own mind.
These thoughts that drain me while I sleep
they’re the awkward goth that sits in the corner at prom,
trying so desperately to fit in but refusing to
sell themselves
to the pink dress.
The rest of the thoughts wonder why they’re there.

I have these thoughts not because I’m depressed or
lonely.
I think I think these things because I’ve convinced myself
I want them.
Disgusting isn’t it? To want the amount of suffering I do.
I hope somewhere it’s not the suffering I want but the
emotion.
The state of being overpowered by emotion to the point where
you can’t function.
Where every choice is the product of an emotional
whiplash.

I see these people who suffer in pain. But I’m strange
because I do not see it as horrible I see it as
beautiful.
Their suffering is beautiful because it is a level of intencity
I cannot feel.
A level of emotion that I hunger for but can not reach.
I don’t know why I want this.
Maybe I feel numb, but I don’t really know.
Maybe I speak words to fill the air. Fill the time.
All those words that are safe, they’ve become
boring.
I want something more to say, more to feel than just the daily shpeal,
even if it means pain.

I do not think I am depressed.
I do not know what I am.
I’ve never met anyone like me before.
Maybe I am
alone.
Maybe everyone feels like me but they keep quiet for fear if they speak
they’ll be condemmed to live their life in a
white jacket.

The world is ******* up.
I am the girl who wears pastels then
talks back to the teachers.
Gets straight As but hangs out with the kids who
smoke *** at lunch.
Who is that that you know?
No one.
I want to help those who I don’t think need help,
because society says there is something
wrong
with them. But what if they’re the one who are sane
and we are the insane?
Maybe we’ve been manipulated to think we are in control but
we’re not.
They are.
The ones on the streets and in the straight jackets.

Insanity is the highest level of intelligence.