I have no idea why I have these unbearable emotions when I think about the fact that I can't make you happy, it brings me down so fast that if somebody tells me I did something wrong or incorrect or anything that's not good, I just feel so... It makes me think about all of the things I hate and it ruins me. I'm ruined

Luckily I remember that when I make mistakes or say shitty things, I'll always end up alone by the end of the day because who in fact wants to talk to a dumb asshole.

it started again and I don't know what to do - I couldn't (can't) breathe and I couldn't stop thinking and my head was spinning. I had to hide so that no one could see me in the state I was. I was completely alone and I hated it, so much. Why. Am I a bad person? Do I really deserve this? I can't say anything and I need - I need you to listen. I need somebody to listen otherwise I'll crack, I need to let it out and know that somebody cares. It made me wonder if anybody would fight for me. Somebody that could love me and fix me.

"People have been through worst." This is my worst. It might get better but you have to know, this is my worst - not yours or his or hers but mine. Today... was not my day.

It will get better

"Please don't expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand."

You know when you're feeling angry and sad and your chest itches and try to scratch it but it only gets worse once you realise it's all in your head. You get all these bad thoughts and you just want to let go and tell some one you're dying on the inside. You want to scream "Fuck you!" and "I can't do this anymore" but you care too much about everyone around you and - and you don't want to spoil their day with your shitty thoughts. What do you do? What happens then?

She hid her edges and the rough corners of her mind from him. Even if he was broken, so familiar with the feeling - she felt as if she was sinning from hiding something he understood.

His eyes flickered from one place to another. Always. His endless dark eyes (brown in the light, but grows dark when he’s forgotten what here felt like) His touch of words so soft in the air that he would be able to stand near a frightened deer, and whisper in it’s ear. You would have loved the sound, it would caress the crevices of your mind, the corners of your lips, the goosebumps on your arms -

She shook her head.

His tall form was always hunched, (there’s a hole inside of his chest and the edges are slowly deteriorating and love is caged in the place of his heart and his mind has been crushed into pieces - It’s been dark in here far too long) and you wonder what has made him seem so fragile there and then, what has locked him in place by invisible hands around his lungs and scorching words that burned what used to be there (don’t worry, he’s not empty yet.)

His past has taken away the courage from his shinobi uniform and the strength from the back of his tongue dissolved into nothingness. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, I’m so sorry, he says over and over and it becomes a broken record in the background. 

How to smooth over the frown lines and the heal his chapped lips, oh - how she wished she could offer more than what her small hands can reach for because they always seem to stop. Not in the beginning or the end. Somewhere along the lines ofI’ll try and I can’t.

One day, he won’t need to worry about the poison ivy and thorns in his pathway. One day, he will be able to breathe despite the blisters and bruises. One day, she will give her corners and edges because healing makes things sweeter and real.

Don’t worry, she said. I won’t let go.

I need advice. I need you.

Nadia: "I have a mad sister."
Me: "And it's not even in the cool way. How boring."

I just thought you guys wouldn't mind if I wrote my problems here because I'm to ashamed to tell people I know. I think you're real and I think you'll understand.

Yesterday while I was getting my passport, I felt really weird-unusual-I don't know and I just broke out in a cold sweat, my hands felt as cold as ice and I thought I was going to be sick. I was having trouble breathing, but I didn't make a scene. (I don't want people thinking I'm crazy). 

I realized after a few hours that I had a nervous breakdown.

I've always gotten nervous over small exams-tests-crowds-cars-hurting people- things but yesterday was - there was nothing to get nervous about. I've always hated how quiet, insecure, awkward and pathetic I am.

I'm not sitting around thinking how sad this is or about myself, I'm getting up and doing things that (used to) make me happy. 

RantRantRant.

I wish I could have a break down every month in my house, on the couch in the lounge while the suns out and not feel embarrassed about it. I wish I could just explode, have tantrums, shout and scream, break glasses and plates, spill blood. I just want to act like a teenager and not worry what others think. I don’t want to act like nothings wrong. It’s just a phase right?

But it can’t be a phase if I never break loose. 

Since I could remember: I never had a tantrum, I never broke a glass or plate on purpose. I never raised my voice to anyone. I never tried to harm myself.

Let me - god, just let me be.

The Grave Diggers.

As I dig up your grave with the same old face, breathing and frowning. The way you've always seen me. I'd never tell you what I was thinking when the soil of your grave seeped into my shoes, or when I couldn't stop digging until I saw you. The only thing you'd ever know, was when I saw the sun and your dead face at the same time. You'd always be real to me.

Destiny.

Some of us are meant to suffer, waking up day after day to a feeling that has no meaning while some have their whole life put out for them, but either way we have to stay alive because we have to see how the story ends.

Im the person behind the curtain.

I've let myself become friends with you because I know that if I can't accept the things you don't offer I wouldn't accept this reality.

And sometimes, when you write about things, I let myself become vulnerable and think "Maybe he was talking about me." But there's always that small little voice inside my head saying "You're invisible."