Monday, April 27, 2015


I am writing this in between researching about environmental issues and chatting with a couple of friends, in between trying to breathe and the trying to think despite the pounding headache I've had since this morning. I’m writing this in between drawing cracks on my planner and trying to keep my heart from breaking. I've succeeded in most of these endeavors – except keeping my heart together. You see, it’s already broken, and I’m holding on to the shattered pieces. They cut my skin and make me bleed and leave scars too faint to see, but they are there. They cut my chest and it hurts more when I breathe, so sometimes I just stop breathing so I will also stop hurting. It hurts so much that I relish breathlessness and physical pain and the blessed grogginess afforded to me by the cocktail of foreign chemicals I ingest. Thank god for sleep.

Once, a long time ago, I retreated to writing. Since October, this is probably the most honest piece I’ve written – unmarred by money and by any other intentions apart from purging myself of dark, dark thoughts. Writing with honesty feels like taking a knife and carving a hole in the decaying remains of my self-worth, mutilating further the remnants of who I thought I was- someone worth something.

I once thought I meant something – that I was at least kind, at least smart, at least something to fight for. I thought that was enough. I was difficult to love, but I was not unlovable.
I was wrong.

I am anything but smart, what I fight for is of utmost importance buy I can barely do anything about it, and I was, am, and never will be beautiful. I am kind, but what is kindness? What is kindness if it is from me? Something only a centimeter above insignificance. If I am not good enough for someone who I have loved truly, passionately, for more than two years, how then am I even going to be good enough for anyone? And truth be told, I am so tired of struggling to fix the broken girl that life and love have left bleeding. I am tired of not being rich enough or accomplished enough, of never ever being beautiful enough to deserve the love that I want. I am tired of not being the choice despite putting in so much effort for these people to see my worth. I am tired of struggling with the broken parts of my broken soul and trying to put back what was never together anyway.

I am very tired and I just want to stop. I want to purge myself of all the dark things inside of me, which means purging myself of everything inside of me. I want to stop and sleep and dream impossible dreams and not get up. I want to stop myself from crying and submit to the pounding headache and the breathlessness of the sick bed. I want to stop writing poetry and stop painting girls who are the sun and girls who are undeserving because they are nothing like the sun.

I want to sleep and not cry and not feel and not want to write and not want to take a knife and carve out my heart with every mention of your name and every kiss of coldness you give me.

I want to stop.