a pile of notebooks lays empty on the shelf and my new keyboard that i've been wanting for ages is collecting dust on my desk. it'll make me write, i had thought. i always wanted writing to be something warm, something done with a cup of tea and a comfortable chair under dimmed lights. as i keep realizing, i don't write like that. i don't write until i have to because my brain gets fuzzy and my pillowcase gets wet and i get scared. i get scared of where my thoughts will lead me if i keep following them inside my head. there's too much space in there, too many dark corners to get lost in. i open my notes app instead.

holidays are always like this. i thought maybe this christmas will be different. i was doing so well. strange people who i'm told are my grandparents and people who aren't supposed to be pregnant right now and photos of loved ones that i knew as i was taking them i'd cry over when they're gone, and my heart was still calm. i didn't know if i had finally gone numb, but i was kind of hoping for it. in my opinion, apathy is a savior - although it never seems to save me fully. i'm alone again and i wasn't thinking about it until i was.

being alone is the thing i know how to do best. it's the thing i've always had to do. i don't like doing the things i know how to do best. i don't like to study physics, i don't like dancing, i don't like being alone. i don't like growing up and earning my own money. i've been subconsciously prolonging my childhood and blaming myself for it for years now. my father blames me for starting therapy and buys me everything i need. my mother has debt and gives me money and wants the best for me and never stops talking. i feel guilty because my family exhausts me and i want to be closer to them. i hate being the oldest daughter and i'm so good at it and i don't know a thing about my brother. i don't try hard enough but i keep thinking about it.

i pour all my love into a single person. nobody else is deserving of it as much as him and they prove it to me. i try not to tell him, i try to give him space. he's allowed to enjoy today. he's allowed to have a life and meet people and be happy and i'm allowed to be okay with it, even if i don't want it. i never show him my writing. he loves me the most too but my most is bigger, it has more emptiness to fill. i keep asking him to empty himself more, to match me, and hating how well it goes. every time i recieve grace i congratulate myself for being a master manipulator and hope he never notices. he claims that's not true. i deserve love, i deserve people to fight for me even if i hate fighting.

i'm too warm and my skin is peeling off. i have to make it worse each third night with a gel that i can't afford but will one day make me pretty. i have hair where I shouldn't and i have to get my ovaries checked. i don't eat well but i'm cooking for myself when i can. no, i don't need any food or anything, thank you, i'm good. i look slimmer, everything looks good on me. thank you. my eyes are red. i look older. i'm just wearing eyeliner. my brother has a man's face, i have a woman's. my hair is pretty short, but my grandma liked it longer. she loves it when i braid it. i want to grow my hair out, i don't like it. my aunt does. thank you. my dad is quiet and happy and will have other children. i'm in a room filled with people where my mother doesn't belong and i can't help but feel her blood in my body.

i should publish this. i should make it into a book, i should write. i should give every written thought a purpose, i should make my suffering a job. you'll suffer but you're going to be happy about it. i should finish the book from an author i hate because i'm supposed to, and then i'll be able to watch the movie. the number three is yellow. i'm losing the plot.