“Mom, I need to see a psychologist. I think I need therapy.”


“Because.. Because I don’t feel well. I want to kill myself.”

“What? What are you saying? Are you crazy?”

“Mom! That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you!” 

That’s how the conversation ended. I was left there trying not to cry at work and drop my tears inside the ice cream I was scooping for the customers. 


I feel bad. There’s no escape. 

I’ve recently bought a dress. Nude colored with balloon 3/4 length sleeves. Flowy chiffon that ends at the middle of tights. My mom says it looks like a nightgown and it does in a way. I’ve put it in my wardrobe all the same. I like it. Even if I know it will look better once it’s stained in red. Bright red blood spreading from my spike pierced stomach after I land on the house railing. 

Nothing new

I had made up a game with my friend. It struck me I didn’t know much about him, his family, his life in general so we made this game. We ask each other a question everyday and then we say something about ourself. Pretty nice huh. I believe we all have something we want to talk about but no one ever asks us and it slowly drowns in us sunken in the past. 

The first question he asks me <are you virgin?>. I don’t know why people care about my sexual activities so much. I see it everyday in my customers’ eyes. Words ready to pour from them like desperate tears. When I meet someone it never crosses my mind wether said person is virgin or a sex animal. Not saying I’m innocent, I’ve lusted plenty of times for someone. I’ve made sex to them countless times in my head. It’s not the same tho. 

At work this afternoon. Customer is done eating, I move to collect the empty plates. My knee brushes his leg involuntarily under the table. I still wonder how goddamn close was I. He looks first at his leg and then stares at me. <I’d bang her> declares he loudly to his friends finally, when I’m still right next to him. <that’s quite a coincidence, for I’d fuck myself gladly too. Actually I finger myself quite consistently, lucky me.> I think. Later, after he has paid he stares me some more, even after we’re done talking and he should move the fuck out this place. He stares to the point it becomes awkward, so I walk away. 

I like to talk to myself sometimes – a motivational speech to self.

To the me in the future,

It’s the me in the past, honestly it’s going to be just a bunch of hours. I’m a creep for doing this. Lol

I know it has been hard, you’ve run and swore inside your head as many times as the sun has risen above our heads and the ones of the people before. No matter what happens to you, your family and friends there’s still going to be another day. You’ve waited this day with fear for days and now it has come and gone by. It’s a rough time and there seems to be no salvation, no realief and inner peace. Let me tell you: you’re right! There’s nothing in this world if your own presence and as you long as you breath you get to move forward, day by day, strain after strain. You get to fight your own inner war, wether it is to yourself or to the world. Even if the world doesn’t give two fucks about you. You could die right now in this moment and the world wouldn’t even be reliefed or slightly concerned because it didn’t know about your lame self to begin with. So, wether it has all gone to shit or it has been fine, the time has passed either way. You get to wait your tomorrow again and hope again, cause that’s what our miserable life is all about: hoping and praying and being disappointed.

Don’t fear no more, accept what comes and move accordingly!

Panta rei. The present becomes past, the past becomes memories. The memories turn into stories. Bits of ourselves we tell each other’s to fall asleep late at night. 

There are just so many things you can blame PMS on and I’m ten days past my period and 20 days early.

I lost it. I hate making mistakes and being wrong and I couldn’t contain my own anger and hatred forward myself and I was in front of the door, this metal door and I punched it with my right hand. It did not hurt. I did not use my knuclkes and as I was to hit the door I probably slowed my fist’s speed because I’m a fucking pussy and did not hit it hard enough. God I hate myself.

It was hardly one of the things that got wrong. Somehow, my post of few weeks ago disappeared, whether it’s my own doing or magic, I have no idea. It’s humorous because in that post I had said I was chilling and taking things easily and now I lost my temper the same way the post disappeared. I don’t mind tho. I don’t care about that entry of mine.

I don’t like who I am when I’m with you. That’s just a facade of who you want me to be or think I am, a meaningless act I keep involuntarily to preserve your image of me, even if it’s one of the lowest opinion. I don’t like being restrained from being myself, even if it’s myself who cannot break these chains. It has been so long I cannot be anything else with you anymore. You have this idea of the person I am and you impose it on me negating my vain attempts to breath.