It Starts As A Harmless Poke To My Shoulder. Never A Serious Matter For When I Turn To Question You,

i hate what you have made me into

resentment is filled within me to the brim. i was born into a family that hates themselves, now i am expected to bare the burden of healing or else all my pain means nothing. or else i will become my parents in my own childrens lives.

i hate that i was never given the opportunity to be unharmed, i wish my story wasnt so hard on my fragile soul, i wish i had no substance or empathy, i wish i was simple...

uncomplicated and obvious.

there should be punishment to those that robbed me of my youth. i cannot shake the feeling that i deserved far better

That gets me thinking about my approaching death. Death - the birth of my end. A begining to an end.

I have romantised my death so much so that I fantasise about it at times. It comforts me that one day all of this noise and music will stop. That i will be forgotten and i will not even remember that.

But i am impatient for this destiny to forth, i want it now. If i were to complete my final act and have my beauty froze. To shorten this life i know i have lived enough.

I am certain of this death and often anticipate my end. Surviving everyday has become so tiring.

Lord if u be, grant me this wish.

End me.

Im tired

And scared

(Typos ik)

— dissociation

the book of disquiet by fernando pessoa // a breath of life by clarice lispector // againts the mass of the night by kaye donachie // how to dissapear completely by radiohead // normal people by sally rooney // rené magritte // virgina woolf // by me // enrico robusti

It starts as a harmless poke to my shoulder. Never a serious matter for when I turn to question you, you respond with a bright smile and remind me that it is all friendly.

Your fingerprint begins to stain my shoulders and I turn to inquire your motivations. Quickly I am shut it down cause it’s nothing serious, just a nudge.

Times pass and the skin that you torment is bruising, the pain pulsates although out my body.

Your hand is tainted crimson with my ooze but still you address me with a smile, after all it’s just a nudge.

You burry your way through my skin and uncover the most fragile parts of my being. The foundation that I am built on is disrupted by your omnipotent presence that chips away at me.

I garner up the courage to question your antics as my bones begin to splinter.

But there is no body to restore me, I am spoilt beyond recovery.

I feel, so tired.

Ive always thought that j was content with my socail circle. Ive a lot of acquaintances and everyone knows my name. Adults consider me charming and im more than often invited out.

Still i have no one.

Say prehaps a book that is covered in emerald green flowers lays ahead of you. Its pages bent and the spine of it ceased. This book has been pages through a few times but its beauty is retained. You would look at this book and understand that it is not a quick read merely by its thickness. Tis only when you open the book would you realise that its writting is miniature, almost requiring a magnifying glass.

Although this novel is garenteed to interest and change your life, the minor inconveniences make you flee. Leaving the book to be engulfed by ratchet vines that suffocate it.

To make the outside of the book would be the solution to making this novel more captivating. This belief in itself opposes the notion that media presents.

I am not good enough… for i can be better, as toxic as it is, it seems to be a solution nonetheless

i’ll protect you from all the things i’ve seen

John Ogilby, The Fables of Aesop, 1665

We suffer not from the events in our lives but from our judgment about them.

Epictetus