Pieces Of Me [an online journal of sorts]

Entry 1 0 7: how

Do you ever talk about something and have people treat it like a joke? Not to be mean, but more like an "I'm not taking this seriously because you're not acting as if this is serious" sort of thing. And you can't blame them. They're faultless in this.

How could they know, when the words ripping through your chest with their heavy truth, do not match the casual air with which you say them? Tell me, how would they know when you keep that smirk on your face and the light in your eyes as you speak of things like death and suicide and your death and your suicide, like it doesn't matter, like the void isn't swallowing you up? Why are you acting like this when you know that, some days, you're so overwhelmed by your own existence, you can barely lift yourself off your bed? Or how you often only feel out-of-your-body numb or out-of-your-mind angry, so much so you feel as if you could slice the entire planet in two and not blink an eye.

All you do is run. All you do is hide. All with that smile and those crinkles around your eyes. Yet you have the nerve to wonder as you look at those around you. Can you see me? you ask them. Can you feel the weariness behind my eyes, the pleas stuck in my throat? And you hate them for not answering. But let me ask you this: How the fuck would anyone know?

That I don't want to be here anymore.

That it's all me, not anyone else.

And that it was never a joke.