Do you have any idea how aggravating it is to not be able to listen to songs that used to bring you calm and peace?? Notes have become open wounds lately, there’s not a day I don’t have to skip a song or I’ll be a blubbering mess before I reach my destination.
Why am I still so damn angry about all of this? Why am I still so SILENT about all of this?
There’s got to be something said for those who struggle internally but I feel that I am seething far more at the simple fact that on the outside I probably appear to be very bubbly, unintelligent and generally happy when that is the farthest fucking thing from reality.
Beautiful disaster, well played illusion at best. Hide the mayhem so no one makes you go on medication again. Sometimes there are cracks in the vernier and now…he knows. Wants you to get help but you don’t see a point because what if…you’re the one that’s right?
What if you’re not really broken? What if the whatever the fuck they’d DSM you with isn’t really a problem but really a florescent lit window into the harsh light of reality? Maybe it’s really your synapses that got it right?
If that’s the case, why does my skin constantly crawl if I’m around the people that used to feel like home to me. Like they can see this thing devouring me and I have to act like they can’t?
Being consciously aware of how fucking wrong you feel 24/7 isn’t something I’d wish on anyone but I feel it ten fold since you left us. Every conversation drips with mediocrity when I’m screaming inside…every hug feels cheap and void because I keep wondering when it’s going to be the last one I ever get.
I’m still so damn mad…mad at you, mad at us. Why do we all think we’re hiding so well when we really see through each other’s shit more than anyone else? Why’d you think you were so damn clever and why in the FUCK didn’t we call you on it more…but would that really change anything?
Living inside my head in akin to watching a blurred version of a party you weren’t invited to. Everything seems to fit but you and when you try to carve out a spot it just feels fraudulent, ill fitting and itchy.
Spend more time wanting to punch everything into a paste than ever saying a word.