Falling in love means I’m crying all the time. It means I’m face-to-face with my capacities. Which are slim.
What does it mean to have a sick body? Punched heart, jaw sore, arms limp, dead legs. Now, finally, after all these years, my body catching up with brain: throwing up every meal as if to say you don’t even deserve food.
And it’s those thoughts that haunt me; you are a liability. When will I stop counting not cutting as a victory?
The worst part is that I’m intelligent. So I know how to rationalize through the triggers. But bugs! Crevice-bound. They keep coming back.
Vertical to get the job done. Can’t even do the job right.
I wish I was lichen, I wish I was foxtrot, wish I was someplace else.
I can’t even do my uni work properly. But if I just applied myself…
All of this self-loathing is useless! But I feel so blue!
Writing about my own debasement doesn’t even feel intellectual anymore, it just comes out pitiful.
Committing myself to institution.
Committing myself to bed.
Getting fucked and drunk and drugs and needles and string.
I wish it was tomorrow.