untitled II (rage film)

I am so sick of having to turn all sadness into something, take all my wrists, and cut them until they fold into structures. they are prisons clawing at my head. they adjust my glass until it catches the light. I move my eyes so close to the world, that it all becomes a blur of spots.

I am hurting so much. I didn't want to—I fucking refused. people will always leave, and people will always tell you, people will always leave. so there is no point in feeling hurt, because it will be, over and over. and I can't, but I am, and—fuck it—fuck it—fuck it—fuck it.

I need to escape it. I need some safety, but now things are rapidly dissipating, the rain retreats, and there is little point to screaming at the sky.

I miss you, you fucking, horrible, bastard.

I miss me, always disappearing.