Wishing I was the moon

Doubt plagues my every thought. Paranoia, anxiety and fear slicing through my brain
Through my veins

Its shredding me
I’m terrified

All I can do is lay here and wait for it to pass my heart racing and stomach burning

Right now
I ache to be held

Small amount of alcohol but I’m sober

Laying on my bed craving the feel of blade to flesh.
The pain. The red. The punishment for nothing.
The long lines of harm. As if I deserve to be scarred on the outside as I am inside.

I won’t do it
I will not succumb to it
But brightly it burns

In these moments I feel so undeserving of the friends I have.
The people who love me
I can’t turn to them
Because then I am nothing more than a leach
Sucking away at their kindness, goodwill with my ceaseless aching
Trying to fill a bottomless void

I can’t do it
Because how long before they can’t take it anymore?
How long before they too leave me?
So I am here writing this
Leaning onward self vampirism
To keep them from leaving
Just a little longer

Welcome to my fears

Being OK

Its frustrating when you are asked how you are and anything less than GREAT elicits a
reaction of concern or worry.

For example  this exchange:
A: “How are you doing?”
B:”I’m doing OK”
A: “OK? Are you depressed?”

Or I’ve heard “only OK?”

When did being OK become a bad thing?
How else can I say, I’m not great or awful but just in the middle.

I should know better and lie.

Its not like I don’t know

Its not like I don’t live with it in the back of my mind every minute I’m awake.

I am alone in all of this. 

Nothing brings it home like reaching out in the dark and no hand squeezes back. Its hard not to kick myself for doing something that only solidifies the isolation.  

I should have just written here.
It was stupid to bother any other route

Even as smart as I am. I’m a slow fucking learner.

I want oblivion, if even just a little while. But I can’t even sleep.
Better be strong or get strong bitch cuz you got nothing else.

the archaic double space after a period. is me

I am currently indulging in a bout of story telling / sloppy writing in order to try and actually create a tale and  thus break through a very long run of writers block.  I miss the smooth feeling of words coursing from my finger tips to keys.


Anyway as I’m typing out the story, I find myself unable to help the double space after my sentence ending punctuation.  I guess its just ingrained.  I’m old.


It is no longer the rule of writing, but an exception.  Like so much in my life rules fade into exceptions.