~im Patched Up, And Sewed With Scars All Over Again, It Hurts~

~im patched up, and sewed with scars all over again, it hurts~

I can feel my palpable hunger. It's growling slowly, softly eroding the acid in my stomach. But this is not about food. This is not about how much I long to be fed and cared for. This is about me doing nothing to curb my insane hunger. Nothing at all. I cannot leave my seat until it is time for me to eat. I am not allowed to eat before that. My existence means nothing earlier than the time assigned to me.

I am external to my own hopes and feelings. I am a creature of habit, lost and so fucking confused because all my patterns are changing now. I don't bite all my nails off at once. I'm eating and sleeping and living. What the actual fuck? Where are my habits, pulling me into those cyclical bouts of depression and anxiety?

Wait, slow down.

Numbness engulfs me. I want love. Someone to hold and kiss. Oh gosh, this is crazy. Did you know insane people dress really well? I cleaned and ate and worked and I'm breaking all my natural habits to co-exist with criminals.

Criminal behavior is cool. I want to kill them. Preferably kill me, burn all my notes to the fucking ground, and forget I ever felt a single fucking thing.

I'm so lonely. I'm laughing internally. No, those are tears of blood. Fuck, Fuck, Shit. Ha ha ha.

I stole shit when I went shopping. I steal things and cry about pants that don't fit my ugly legs anymore. Self-deprecation is so much fun! Ha, you thought I was getting better. What in the world does getting better even mean?

I am literally a social construct and would not exist if everything never existed and existence is so taxing. I need sleep. I want to kill you, maim your skin with scars given from a Swiss knife. I carry poison around like it's something to be proud of.

FUCK, FUCK, SHIT.

Bye bye bye.

Materialistic shit is so fucking cool. Buy me stationary thanks, wait not those pens. My favorite color is green, idiot.

Do you think Dolphins know they will all die one day? I want to taste pizza with ketchup again. Let's get pizza and watch the stars and no, never mind, you remind me of my dead father.

Grave? Oh you mean mine? Yeah, it's already prepared. A death note, a step-by-step process. I intend to be a rich dead motherfucker that takes her own life. Gunshot to the head, blood names on the walls, and a shit ton of cash floating in that bloody bath.

Blood money. Use it at will.

Bye bye, fuck.