coincidences don't exist

cry

just fucking cry, bitch.

it's not helping at all, the way you're suffocating yourself in huge chunks of words and swallowing the pain back inside until it destroys the rest of your body, it's not helping because your mind is already screwed up and your heart has long been shut down and smashed to pieces.

just fucking let those ugly, ugly tears fall from your eyes because you will feel better, but maybe you don't want to feel better and you want to feel like you're in control when really every single organ and vein in your body has gone twisted and out of control

because you look at yourself in the mirror everyday and hate what you see but sometimes it feels good not liking yourself

because you once read somewhere that they won't like a person who can't like themself.

there was a time that seemed like a previous life when i could reach out to the sunlight and feel happy and never noticed the little things like how it made my palm redder and scorched the back of my skin until it was too agonizing to lie on my side because the skin was peeling and i stay awake counting days until all this will end, and i'm counting in seconds because i try to believe i can live like this a lot longer because i pretend i am stronger than what i really am

which is not strong

weak weak weak

weak like babies born with illnesses and old men who can't get out of bed

the phlegm at the back of my throat reminds me of things that i don't want to remember but i find myself thinking of it everygoddamnday because those things are the only ones that can show me i am still alive.

i sit myself down in my room and count the pills inside the bottle though i know there are 58 because i've only taken two and the bottle says 60.

i still go back to that place where everything is black and i feel comforted by it all because i don't have to worry about tripping over something beautiful and making sure it's not going to hurt because of what i have done but it's all a fucking phase because i still wake up to blue skies and realize there are certain things that i have done and repeated, mistakes that i will have to eat up and hope never to regurgitate out so the effect will only occur to me

i wish i was blind

i wish i could breathe properly without having to force my heart to thump another beat more because some people still want me here even though i wished every night that i was long gone

i wish i could cry

i wish i could cry

i wish i could cry

but i am afraid to feel what i had promised myself never to feel again, lying to myself that what i am experiencing right now is not that exact fucking feeling and the only reason why i don't cry is because i have succeeded in feeling a cold, hard depression not the hurricanes of reality.

and that's when i pretend i don't feel the pain

when really i do