Mar 2014
I don't like to celebrate my birthday
I don't celebrate my birthday.
What is there to celebrate?
My existence is stained in accident and I don't need to be given purpose in rubber balloons, and paper streamers, and cheap wax candles.
My birthday feels like a date that's begging and pleading for someone to acknowledge that I'm alive, and I don't want to have to pretend to be.
I don't want to be thankful for stupid gifts that are brought on by obligation and I don't want to smile when I hear "happy birthday" come off your lips. I'm not happy.
My birth is just a day. A mistaken date, an accidental date, a victimized date that had to bear my name being attached to it like I'm of some significance to the calendar. Like I'm of some significance to time.
Time that will also be one more year closer to death which is just as unbearable because it's confirmation of my accidental, mistaken, existence. It's the stamp that says "she shouldn't have been breathing in the first place". Don't date my tombstone.
Its uncomfortable for me to celebrate my birthday.
I'm not trying to be depressing, or pitiful, or too "deep" about things BUT this is just a fact. A statement. An acceptance in my life. A way things are kind of feeling. Permanent.
So don't tell me I'm thinking about it all wrong and to be more positive. That people love me and are happy I'm alive and want me to know that. That's a bunch of *******. If you loved my existence you wouldn't need to express that to me in chocolate icing, and blow horns, and confetti bits. I'm not pitiful. Birthdays are just a pitiful excuse for you to make my existence more about living for you. A debt for your "kindness" at throwing me a party. A debt for your "thoughtfulness" because of that expensive gift you bought with me in mind. A debt for your "love".
That's what I mean when I say simply, " I don't want to be 19".
I don't celebrate my birthday.
What is there to celebrate?
My existence is stained in accident and I don't need to be given purpose in rubber balloons, and paper streamers, and cheap wax candles.
My birthday feels like a date that's begging and pleading for someone to acknowledge that I'm alive, and I don't want to have to pretend to be.
I don't want to be thankful for stupid gifts that are brought on by obligation and I don't want to smile when I hear "happy birthday" come off your lips. I'm not happy.
My birth is just a day. A mistaken date, an accidental date, a victimized date that had to bear my name being attached to it like I'm of some significance to the calendar. Like I'm of some significance to time.
Time that will also be one more year closer to death which is just as unbearable because it's confirmation of my accidental, mistaken, existence. It's the stamp that says "she shouldn't have been breathing in the first place". Don't date my tombstone.
Its uncomfortable for me to celebrate my birthday.
I'm not trying to be depressing, or pitiful, or too "deep" about things BUT this is just a fact. A statement. An acceptance in my life. A way things are kind of feeling. Permanent.
So don't tell me I'm thinking about it all wrong and to be more positive. That people love me and are happy I'm alive and want me to know that. That's a bunch of *******. If you loved my existence you wouldn't need to express that to me in chocolate icing, and blow horns, and confetti bits. I'm not pitiful. Birthdays are just a pitiful excuse for you to make my existence more about living for you. A debt for your "kindness" at throwing me a party. A debt for your "thoughtfulness" because of that expensive gift you bought with me in mind. A debt for your "love".
That's what I mean when I say simply, " I don't want to be 19".
