i'd really like to just take a moment and breathe because i mean it's hard to breathe inside a volcano but since it's of my own doing it's kind of nice to know that i'm the one killing myself i'm the one drowning in my own lava i'm the one who's going to die because of my mistakes and not you not you it was never your fault it was never your loss to bear so why did i let you why did i let you why did i let you think my falling was my fault and why didn't I save you because i was selfish that's why i was not who i am i wasn't me and i couldn't focus and listen to me coming up with excuses for my own actions but really how can you blame me for being human when the only person who blames me for that is myself constantly every day of my life and don't you think it's hilarious that i punish myself more than anyone else even has the capability of doing but they still do it and it just lays and lays on top of everything else and then there's me just little insignificant me who just likes to sit and watch herself have absence seizures and realize that she's not who she believed she was or even could be only because she holds herself back she holds herself back i hold myself back because why well I guess my emotions are just too strong they're too hot of a magma to keep others safe and it is my own personal protective bubble but it still scalds me and don't you think it's ironic?

Those words were never meant for me, I know. I stole them.
But what a bittersweet revelry it was to be able to think for once, at once, I belonged.
How wonderful was the joy that surpassed all feeling as for a moment, one fleeting moment, I was someone.
Not a blob in the shadows and not the thorn on a rose, not sticking out, unnoticed, or left behind.
But someone.
**You're the only one who knows who I really am.
We all wanna be somebody, we just need a taste of who we are.
We all wanna be somebody; we're willing to go, but not that far.

It was the kind of fog that makes you wonder if you're gonna be able to breathe when you open the door.

It was the kind of fog that makes you ask yourself if your glasses prescription is really strong enough.

It was the kind of fog that makes you speculate if your headlights are going to be sufficient to get you to work.

It was that kind of fog, and that kind of night.

So I sang.

sometimes i just wanna watch the weeds in my mother's herb garden grow and not in a monotonous way like i have nothing better to do with my life cause i mean i don't but i just want to have the control of saying i could destroy you if i wanted but having even more control in never doing it don't you think it's sick and sadistic don't you think my mind is a poisonous **** itself wrapping itself around the places it doesn't belong and when it finally leaves like those summer breezes that blow leaves around then leaves them sad and despondent cause they can't fly once the breeze deserts the place and the branches and the feelings it ******* loved most and isn't it ******* ironic that a monster like the wind can feel it can destroy and destroy and destroy but it also has feelings and in the aftermath and all the torn up branches and weeping children's voices crying over look mommy my clubhouse got crushed by that falling tree and the wind was mad, honey, that's all and no i wasn't mad i was torn torn from myself and from feeling what i wanted to feel when i wanted to how i wanted to because my feelings can destroy you and me and everything else everyone else and when i look back over my shoulder those weeds have grown into a plant so spiky and forbidding that i feel helpless and know i had the control to **** it earlier but didnt and dont you wonder what it would have been like if i had just killed it at its source and just eradicated all this useless pain?

I didn't know moaning had two purposes. for real.
and this isn't meant to be ******.

but when you're rolling over the couch
over
and over
and ******* over again
and nothing seems to make sense,
especially the times you force air in and out of your throat....

why the moaning?

because I know for one
panicking
is not pleasurable

What classifies as a panic attack?

Maybe it's the breathing that escapes me when I think about the past, the future, but most of all, the present.

Maybe it's the horrible thoughts that stampede loudly through my head begging to be written out onto my skin.

Or maybe it's the inconstant shaking that decides it can be controllable only when it doesn't have to be.

I miss my little self.

She didnt panic over words, not like I do.

i just wish i could fall over on cue.

just to be able to snap my fingers and collapse, wouldn't that be perfect?

the great thing about it would be that
i'd only have to do it
once.

because who dies twice?

i'm so sick of living.
i'm so sick of being punished for doing what i'm told.
i'm so sick of doing what seems right but then learning it's wrong.
i'm so sick of not being able to write anything anymore.
i'm so sick of them.
i'm so sick of her.
i'm so sick of him.
I'm so sick of myself...

is this my last? maybe.
is this my first? perhaps.

all i know is I really don't want to be alive to reread this later.