nothing motivates me to live but the hope that one day you might forgive me. delusional. i know more than anyone how impossible that is. i'm still sending messages out to the void, itching to hear some echo of interest. i'm reaching out to grasp some proof you might still remember who i am. sometimes i wonder how little you care. actually, i don't need to anymore. the smartest part of me knows you don't. the dumbest part of me keeps me from doing anything about it.

writing must’ve just been a phase for me. because now that i’ve exhausted every possible metaphor to make between the physical world and my obsession with you, i find that there’s nothing interesting enough in my life to write about anymore. all i'm left with is this sadness, hanging thick and heavy over my eyes. there’s no motivation left in me to claw my way above the surface; i’m fine with the fact that i’m drowning. all i’ve learned is that my vocabulary is limited to discussing yesterday’s news, that i’ve been frozen in time and i might never feel emotion the way i used to. everything i’ve tried to say about anything since entering lonesomeness again has been pointless, repetitive, nonsensical, unprofound. i’ve felt the obsession come back full force, the paranoia hit me bad for the first time in years. i’m remembering what it’s like to truly be alone. i’m remembering the fear i felt as a kid.

i've been thinking a lot lately about the things i used to do back then. i used to put drops of tea tree oil in my eyes so i'd cry before going onstage for my lyrical numbers. i used to force all the blood to my head till i popped vessels in my face and fainted in the hopes i'd eventually have a stroke. i used to use the tiny scissors of my pocket knife to cut chunks of my knuckles off. i used to drink toilet bowl cleaner, mixing it with ginger ale to convince myself i wasn't trying to disintegrate from the inside out. i used to dismantle my mom's shaving razors and turn them into popsicle switchblades with a paperclip and hot glue. they were the first things i ever used to cut myself with and i'd go near the ankles, where nobody was looking. things aren't much different now. i scrape my flesh away over a paper bag with a switchblade, peeling back layers of skin one by one like whittling a stick over a fire. i carve trenches into my arm and fill sketchbooks with the blood.