in the shower, sitting in the bathtub.

it's official, i'm not going to kill myself by slitting my wrists.

-----

such a mess though.

i don't know how the fuck i'm going to get away with covering this.

them.

-----

i hadn't cut like that since i was 15.

-----

my dad asked if i'd started smoking pot again (i almost said i wasn't aware that i'd stopped) and i burst into tears and say i can't wake up without crying and i'm hopelessly sad blah blah blah

i just need something.

i get a lecture, best of intentions, i know. he has even less of an idea than me maybe.

but i left feeling worse.

more alienated.

-

and i'm not going to run away..not tonight anyway

there's no buses and trains until 6:40 tomorrow morning and that would get me there in the middle of the day..timings all wrong, i wanted to get there around 2-3am. hmm.

and this 4 entries in one day shit again. fuck, i'm sorry.

and all the typo's...i really need a life.

i need to make some friends.

i've been Fucking Stoned for a good 10 months. thats my biggest effort yet.

5 day break.

i need to straighten up.

-

it'd be nice to all of a sudden grow old and have those nights, that time..all absinthe and rockstar fights, all flowers and early morning happenings..all drama and beauty, have those nights be what i curl myself around with a bottle in hand..lost to them.

so much good music has been semi..ruined.

unlistenable

(i'm tired i said)

always look tired she said..

-

am i going anywhere?

what is this?

really..this you want to kill yourself don't you don't you and all these little cuts

all this messy blood and nothing nothing

no reaction.

i feel nothing.

-

my eyes are as blank as pieces of paper

my whole face drained of colour

-

my eyes are magnificently clear and i'm

anything but.

-

all the sympathy. carrying guilt

maybe i just don't want to listen.

-

i've got to put it all in a box, tie a ribbon around it and hide it under my bed or in the back of a drawer.

i've got to give it up, get it away from me.

dead to him.

i don't even know who he fucking is.

know what he's like

sometimes.

he knows even less about me.

this strange fucking version of me, like something was never complete

kind of blots me out

sends my head spinning, past tense darling

rejected

so many times it's embarrassing.

blatant requests. nothing to lose. grow a fucking heart love.

how much do you know?

how guilty are you?

now what was i saying..put it in a box

-

i'll grow old and curl up with this.

tomorrow.

notebook. i won't smoke pot this week. someone get angry at me if i do. i'm not going to be able to keep that promise. no one will get angry at me.

-

they've got your number

watch the phone like it's a tv.

nothing better to do.

-

i don't fit anywhere. anyone who knows me personally will back this up. i'm a fucking freak. idiot. misfit.

anyone who knows me personally will back this up.

-

i fit with myself. sullen and silent.

-

maybe i'll go write somewhere else.

there are plenty of places.

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