11:11

wish thirty-four

    Somedays, I’d rather do absolutely nothing. Just lay and feel the pressure growing in my back as the knife churns from side to side, splitting my bones apart and sinking deeper into my tendons. I’d rather just float on the sand—feeling my hair be kissed by the sun’s rays as the locks get lighter. I’d rather not say a word to you, just forget you even exist. Somedays, it is for the better. Then you come back, acting as if nothing happened, no words were tossed at it each other, no anger developed the air above us, my vulnerability didn’t waver above your eyes, nothing.

    But then again, I am nothing so your disappearance doesn’t matter because when you do return, you return to a nobody—someone who is a pathetic waste of a human being. Oh, but I can’t tell you what’s happening to me, you’d say: others have it harder.

      Oh, but no, I cannot tell you how I daydream of ways to die, and the aftermath? Oh, no tears are shed.

    My life is just absolutely perfect, you know? I have a dose of sketched on smiles, beautiful arms to rest in at night—all thanks to the cold, empty beat of a devil’s heart.

    What makes me feel absolutely peachy is when you have the audacity to make me apologize for their behavior. I have to apologize for my feelings to be crushed into ashes.

    “I am sorry you hurt me. I didn’t mean to be such an emotional, overly sensitive freak.”

    But then again, my feelings do not matter. Nope, don’t say they do, you can’t even bother with me.

    What is funny is how they compliment you with the usual “oh, you’re just a great writer.” And guess what? They don’t even read the emotions on the paper. Apparently, nowadays, you can define a person by not knowing who they are.

    What if I wrote absolute trash on here (but you do, darling)? Would you still call me a such a good writer?

    I am not even a writer. I am just trash with scribbles on it. I wish I could be the person I was before you stamped your soul into my life. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so worthless.