Write

"Written in blood." An interesting saying. Rather macabre. But to do so...makes me giddy. Likely because of how much blood it requires. I had forgotten how long the high lasts. Perhaps I need to do this more often.

Grip

To the past: I want to let you go. You're tearing me apart. Killing me. And you don't even know it. You've forgotten all about me. But I can't let you go. Your memory is like a vice cutting off my desire to live. You've left me. Why can't I let your memory go? Why?


To the present: I want to let you go, too. These hairpin turns you keep throwing at me hurt. I'm not prone to wearing my seat belt at all times. Please, I'm begging you...stop. Just...stop. Stop screwing around. Literally. Figuratively. I'm running out of how many times I can accept you being pregnant. You never have good news. Always bad. Even your smiles are fake. And I know you're hurting. And I know you've suffered so much. But...I have a breaking point. If I knew how to leave someone, I'd leave. You are a vice on top of the past's vice. I'm so sorry. I wish I didn't feel this way.

Well.

Well, fuck. There goes that. Awesome.

Cracked

Cracked. Broken. Shattered. Has Issues. Fucked Up. Take your pick. They all describe me. And the desire to fix me is coming back to haunt me less and less often. Not that I mind. I think perhaps I need to make a Plan. For when I'm through being a Chicken Shit and pretending that there is still part of the world that hasn't abandoned me and that I in return have not let go. The shrink is right, I did screw up. But she's also wrong. It is my fault.

Add

Considering adding worthless to the s.

So sick of this shit. Being gone would be so much easier. Home is no better than Hell.