I’m an idiot. Obviously. This too shall pass. But if everything passes, nothing matters. My anguish and happiness matters jack shit and all is lost in the wind. Self conscious is what you call it, shut the fuck up it says, I want to cut my sideburn and my wrists
Dear god, I don’t even care if I sound like I’m trying to me too edgy, I constantly think about slicing my wrists, blood dripping, making a pool on a white desk,
And banging my head against the desk as hard as possible is a thing I fantasize, think, thoughts interjected, intervened, intruded upon, whatever the fuck it is, until my forehead splits open and blood pours out.
I die. Why? Because I’m not good enough? Live for myself, they say. So it goes. So I die for my own sake. Because I hate myself.
Always. One thing I hate is resolved. Another thing arises. Try to flatten a balloon, buddy. You can’t squeeze everything; something is bound to bulge out,
Or I guess you can just pop the damn thing!