it never fucking stops. the pounding in my skull. the tightness in my chest. i'm never enough, not for myself or anyone or anything. i spend all day chasing something and i don't know what it is. 21 years and i haven't known once what it's like to feel complete. my bedroom is a dumping ground for my garbage and i only ever visit it between the hours of wishing i was dead and trying to be.

here's the worst part. in my incompletion, the first thing i think about it you. it's never about you until i let it be. and then i think, "if i still had you, would it be this bad?" and i know, deep down, that it wouldn't. not for you, not for anyone. you're gone, sure, but you're not the piece of me that's missing. there is no antidote. and i resent you for it. i resent you because i'm not whole.

i'm this angry, hateful person, all the time. there's no room to contain this immense hatred i have for myself. so it explodes out from me and disperses everywhere, and i smear it over my eyes, over people, over my words and everything i do. the world is blanketed in a veil of my hatred. i don't recognize me. where is that sweet child that used to like living? that used to feel important, that used to try? i used to try so hard. after years of trying, it is impossible to remember what i'm trying for.