How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?
Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.
Once again the absurdity of my inner thoughts overwhelms me, and I want to crawl out of my skin, escape my ugly, awkward flesh and be a skeleton, naked and anonymous.
We are where we are, however we got here. What matters is where we go next.
Sometimes it's a struggle to live in the moment.
All the shitty stuff people do to themselves... it can all be the same thing, you know? Just a way to drown out your own voice. To kill your memories without having to kill yourself.