Sleep's not the cure
but it sure as hell helps to
ease some of this pain

6:53 PM
18/2/20

I'd like to ask you to repeat what you just said but I'm afraid to ask.
I've never been able to bring myself to ask anything, in fear of being wrong or sounding dumb.
This is a predicament, without questions I don't know what I'm doing but I cannot force myself to ask you.
I cannot ask you to make an exception for me either, for I don't speak up at all.

How does one just ask a question? I freak out about just speaking.
I can't even speak up above my name being pronounced wrong!
Could you please repeat your explanation? I'm softspoken and don't like speaking.
I can't bring myself to physically ask you so I just look miserable until you ask what's wrong.

Questions. It's all I have, yet I can't bring myself to say anything.
These anxieties I have are dead weight, I can't keep going.
I hate it all. Why can't I speak up? Why can't I ask questions? What's wrong with me?
Am I incorrect?

It's all the same depressing thoughts. "You're never going to make it through life."
I hear it every day. The same phrase. It repeats itself, something I could never do.
I can't feel anything because of this, I feel the need to repress it.
I'm going to ask again; could you please repeat yourself?

I look in the mirror to notice that there's a stranger looking at me.
Tears roll from her eyes, a face painted with misery
- in fact it's quite ugly.
She looks down and stares at her screen, realizing she's just been left on read.
Honestly, I wonder what's going on inside this stranger's head.

Cursed vivid thoughts start to ricochet inside tightened manacles
- she's not OK.
Her palms turn clammy, sweating  with fear until loneliness and heartbreak causes her skin to shear. With chilling sorrow fulfilling her eyes it causes more pain to enhance her cries.

I look into the mirror and notice that the stranger remains staring at me.

Dear diary;
At last,
it is Friday
and now I want
to make bad decisions
that I can survive.

I may have stumbled
Fallen into a pit
Hurt and bruised,
Dirt and mud,
a blanket around me
My voice lost
Like so many others
Deep in the sea
But I would stand
As I am not dead yet
Revive my energy
Rejuvenate myself
As a duty, a calling
Lies on my shoulder
As dead, still eyes
Watch me with hope
Be assured,
I would not die unspoken

trapped
inside of this box,
sitting on a deck,
and surrounded with thorns and snags.
white, sharp spikes.
a single move, would bleed my skin,
leaving bloodpools and red stains.
wall made of glass,
creating infinite illusions,
deceiving to the eyes
trapped, looking for demise,
screaming till the mirror starts to crack,
the same image appear,
within the new pieces.

I used to think I was flawless, truth is I am less than perfect.
I can't believe how awful I am, but I mean, what do you expect?
I am less than perfect, that much is true, but I can't help but wonder
What does perfection physically look like? Each of these ideas I plunder.

I don't know. I'm not sure about anything anymore. Haven't a clue.
Everywhere I look, it's just multiple copies of the darkest shade of blue.
Everyone stares at me, their soulless eyes, a dead, glazed look.
So I try to keep my head down, hiding behind my many notebooks.

Perfect. Why even have a word for something that doesn't exist?
It's a useless word, something I try to avoid but it always persists.
Sometimes I think about if I were perfect. What would I look like? Act?
Then I try to push the many thoughts away, they're way too abstract.

What does it mean to be perfect? It means to not have ANY flaws.
That's all I'll ever hear, "Be more perfect, you'll gain some applause!"
I hate that I have live with this idea of perfection, it's a "utopia", so dumb.
So I have to change myself to be the person that people want me to become.

My heart begged me to
do something dramatic and
so I set it free

7:39 AM
29/1/20

Dear diary;
All of the good days are nothing
compared to the emptiness I feel
since she took her away-
or more like a piece of me away.
And now I think I am getting sick
from all of the poison she fed me
over the past year-
that's all she left.

I keep hurting
myself with thoughts
that I may or may not mean.
There's a storm raging
inside my head-
silvery clouds I
cannot tame.