conversations with myself. round 1.
you might look at my messages and say aloud, “what am i supposed to say to that?”, and in your head you might think that i’m pushing you too hard & in the process pushing myself further over the edge. sure, this all may be true; a part of me kills itself every chance it gets. i’m on this purgatory called earth.
i’m stuck sitting in the waiting room flipping through the same fucking magazines about vanity and vanity and vanity, and a little part of me kills itself.
i’m place myself in my room with human emotions and attachments convincing myself i’m pathetic, and you’re pathetic. i’m worthless, but you’re worthless too. struggling with this dilemma - a piece of myself dies.
when i dissociate, look out at the world, try to smile, blink -there’s this nausea that builds up inside; my body can’t decide between puking and shitting. this is when i die, again.
i try to focus on everything good that exists during sex. i’m not surprised, whether it’s a smooth fuck or a rough one i can never orgasm. but it’s not you.
it’s wrong. it’s living. it’s breathing. it’s everyone; it’s no one.
consider me dead