All I really want to do is lick my wounds.
Draw the curtains, curl up under the covers. I want to live in this, and wallow in it, and scream about it until my voice is gone. I want to bury these salty cheeks in the pillow and sob, eyes swollen, lungs shaking as they empty and beg for air and struggle to do it all over again.
Honestly, some days, I am not sure whether I will make it out of this waiting alive.
Do you ever fantasize about running away from everything?
How many times a day? Have you thought about who would miss you? I bet you know who you would take with you. A split second, flash across your mind, those eyes — see, you already know.
How many times a day do you want it?
There is so little stopping you, when it comes down to it. A packed bag, a plane ticket. There are people to help you change your name, and find your happiness. Spin the globe, pick a spot, put your past behind you. We only have so many days. We only have so many moments and all that pressure you keep up in that head, the guilt you carry in your heart, all that worry of never having lived a full life will make you fat, and fuck up your spine, and push away all your friends.
It used to be the strangest thing to me when some of you would ask me in feverish tones to please never stop writing. I wonder now how obvious it was that my mind was about to shatter into ten billion beautiful fucking fragments.
By the way, if you’re new here, god damn you fell into this at a weird time.