The last time I felt like this, I had this craft knife and I was etching parallel lines into my arm, watching the blood slowly drain into the valleys of those cuts. The scars are fading, but the feeling is coming back. Too numb and mentally worn out to cry. Wish I could cry, it might make me feel better. Wish I could at least shed a tear for the dreams I am cradling close to me, hopes of a nice future, my creativity expelled - productive outlets for my anxiety fear rage helplessness loneliness rioting-imagination, my secret happy dreams, disintegrating in my arms. Wish I was dead.
A personal blog to write what I can't say in person. Who am I today?
