untitled and unfinished

chapter three

"Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word."― George R.R. Martin, Game of thrones.  If that is true that I am merely a person of scabs and wounds. Constantly bleeding and crying for help with no one near. Reopening wounds. Wounds that never heal. Self inflicted, peer inflicted, mentally inflicted. Nothing is left. Laying in my bed, tears streaming down my face. I write about wounds that has never been closed. 

My life has been constant motion. Constant change. Never someone to be there. Stay there with me. Literature has been the only thing that has stayed constant. It is the only reason I am here today. I wouldn't be able to fight anymore. I have been uprooted from the one place that felt like home. Now I am a foreigner in a land that does not welcome strangers. But in a way literature is like a drug. It takes away the pain for a second, a minute, a day. What happens when it wears off?  Will I be strong enough to fight the awful world I must face? What will happen? 

The one place that has ever been home for me is now gone. My only safe space in life had been taken from me. I am simply a ghost from the past. Forgotten. Erased. I feel as is I was left crying and screaming please come back. They did not need me. But I needed them. More than ever, and they forgot me. I needed them to stay but I drifted away. Miles and miles separate us. 

Now I am stuck with people who do not care about me. Trapped in a box that I cannot escape from. They do not care about me. They never have. They care more about idiot teenage boys than me. I am drowning and struggling for air and they don't give an absolute damn.  What would they do if I just surrendered to the pain? Surrendered to the thoughts. Would  they even care? They leave me out, judge me for my honest opinions, and would rather never have met me. I feel as if I am constantly a burden. 

I am not wanted. I never was. I had a home, amazing friends, and I felt safe and completely me. I am a completely different person now. I lost myself to people who don't even want me. I was confident and spoke my mind about issues that I cared about. I was the one to stand up for the person being bullied, I was the one who said what everyone thought. Now I am self conscience, quiet, and reserved. I lost who I was. I want her back. I want everything back. I was robbed of something amazing. Better than anything in this life. Better than anything in the next. 

Constantly making up scenarios to take away the pain of the real world. This world has nothing. Our world is messed up and awful. Transport me away. Let me go away to somewhere else. To a world where none of this has to happen. Literature has given me this escape. Making me reliant. Closing the opened wounds. Just for them to reopen again. Why couldn't it have just let me bleed out?