It upsets me when I read about other people and their lovely grandparents. Mine are awful living beings. They only care about money. It’s not like they took all the rents of a shop my parents had. It’s not like they took part of the money when they sold my parents’ shop, a shop that now values way more than at the time. An amount of money and God only knows how much that is cause they would not say. And yet! They keep expecting money from my parents and shit talk to my aunties and uncle about our family. They wanted MY money when I was working when they never gave me shit and never will other than shit talk. I feel robbed. I feel robbed because I do not know what relationships with my other relatives are like. I feel nostalgic to feelings I never had but only read about. When at work I see people having a really close relationship with their aunties or uncles, it always seems wrong to me.
It sickens me I have to hold hands with him. It sickens me I have to kiss him. It sickens me I eventually will have to sleep with him. It sickens me this is making her so happy. It sickens me to the bones. I come back home and I think I maybe can get used to it. I come back home and hide myself to cry. I come back and I want to kill my self. I look at her and she’s happy, she laughs like everything finally is going the right way and I just want to die.
In writing we find ourselves.
“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.
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.