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dont look back in anger

Don’t look back in anger they say, but I’ll look back in rage. I can never let things go without a fight, you can say I beat a dead horse until it’s back to life. Knowing deep down I can’t go back no matter how hard I fight fuels me with an indescribable amount of fury, bashing the door psychotically pleading to let me go back in time.

In the moment it’s euphoric, it feels like forever swearing that change will never happen to me things will stay the same forever. Even when I know there’s a deadline. Even when I know there’s a return flight. 

Don’t look back in anger, can I look back in delusion? Live with my eyes closed so I can pretend nothing has changed, just live inside my memory. My neck is so tired from looking back in hindsight, please let this door open, please let me go back. How can I not be angry when I’m haunted by ghosts of people that are still alive, there’s a cinema behind my eyes replaying their faces, replaying my memories. 

Time you are a cruel, cruel person for never allowing us to go back, I always find myself sobbing at your feet like a toddler. But you’re not a mother and you won’t comfort me. So the ache sits in my stomach, I’m so angry. 

00:54

14 oct

It’s all on me

The Air that cloaks me is so still. I’m out past midnight and im scared. In a run down government funded hospital with floors that remind me of myself- so deeply dented and dirty that there exists nothing to cleanse it.

The low hum that the vending machine sings is accompanied with random outburst of the intercom calling for a doctor. This is a place of pain, a medium in which sickness and dread gather.

She tired to take her life. So soon, is all that I thought. Although she is physically alright, there is this distant pain that stings me- what if I had not answered the phone.

I hate to say it but she has proven them right, she is weak. But I only hate myself for thinking such and dread the fact that such thought occurred about my beloved.

I thought I would be able to catch up on sleep, but here I am seated on a steel cold bench waiting for the patient and her companion to come out. I don’t even know what they are doing to her. But I do hope she is not in pain.

Am I selfish for wanting her to stay? Yes…

But then again I think if she truly wanted to leave she would have by now. Her calling me gathered the fact that she still has hope, without hope she would be past that point.

But oh man, am I tired. Since she has not lived up to the expectations now I must. This is not words that have been directly communicated but rather suggested and installed throughout my youth.

I don’t feel much, I usually don’t when traumatic events happen, and it truly scares me. Why is that I am unable to process my emotions on that moment. It is only much later that they flood my mind and slash my skin.

Once again I feel like the world is craving in on me. The memory of someone that passed haunts me. What could I have done to make his short life more pleasing, he died feeling distaste for me, how pathetic I am for being with one of his friends.

And what makes this even sadder is that I’ve made my grief all about me. It’s like this disgusting self centred attitude makes path to my selfishness. It scares me.

Im back after a break but I missed you guys </3

Fyodor Dostoyevsky // Alanis Morissette

you are eating me

your presence was never acknowledged,

at least i never really cared

you depicted me as an angel

gave me flowers and sweets

regardless of my public labels

you still choose me

but i never cared

until i learned that you were gone

the guilt i was now forced to bare

left me alone in desperate despair

you light was only shone

when i gathered in unknown

reminiscence comes in waves

wishing to reciprocate what you gave

sorry i could not care

now you are eating me

I feel, so tired.

Ive always thought that j was content with my socail circle. Ive a lot of acquaintances and everyone knows my name. Adults consider me charming and im more than often invited out.

Still i have no one.

Say prehaps a book that is covered in emerald green flowers lays ahead of you. Its pages bent and the spine of it ceased. This book has been pages through a few times but its beauty is retained. You would look at this book and understand that it is not a quick read merely by its thickness. Tis only when you open the book would you realise that its writting is miniature, almost requiring a magnifying glass.

Although this novel is garenteed to interest and change your life, the minor inconveniences make you flee. Leaving the book to be engulfed by ratchet vines that suffocate it.

To make the outside of the book would be the solution to making this novel more captivating. This belief in itself opposes the notion that media presents.

I am not good enough… for i can be better, as toxic as it is, it seems to be a solution nonetheless

It starts as a harmless poke to my shoulder. Never a serious matter for when I turn to question you, you respond with a bright smile and remind me that it is all friendly.

Your fingerprint begins to stain my shoulders and I turn to inquire your motivations. Quickly I am shut it down cause it’s nothing serious, just a nudge.

Times pass and the skin that you torment is bruising, the pain pulsates although out my body.

Your hand is tainted crimson with my ooze but still you address me with a smile, after all it’s just a nudge.

You burry your way through my skin and uncover the most fragile parts of my being. The foundation that I am built on is disrupted by your omnipotent presence that chips away at me.

I garner up the courage to question your antics as my bones begin to splinter.

But there is no body to restore me, I am spoilt beyond recovery.

Wish I was a boy