My friend texts me, excited:
"I tried eight kinds of mead today!"
and I faced eight kinds of despair
...but neither of us is ready for this conversation
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To bed—
but I don't sleep, to God but I don't pray, to life, but I don't live,
Just wish that I was dead
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I want to scream at the top of my lungs. I want to rip my hair out and hit the back of my head against the wall till it cracks. I remember how, when I was dying, I thought “the sky is so pretty,” and maybe the sky is the only thing that still keeps me alive
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Not so long ago I saw a post saying "he committed".
They doesn't say "suicide".
It's funny somehow that "committed" could mean so many different things.
He fell in love immediately when he saw dark red curls and a wide smile on that playground. Not committing to her was never an option.
It was an accident, really. But when he saw her trembling, with tears staining her cheeks and blood on her hands, he confessed to a crime he never committed.
The burden was too heavy after all. I'm sorry, he thought, life's never been easy for me.
I'm just so tired.
He committed.
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Memory plays a joke on me. I remember little things.
Fear of heights. Dislike for bananas. Allergy to pumpkin. Disgust for toes. Favorite colors. Forgotten places. Rare smiles.
I wish I remembered something else instead. Something of greater value. Like this rule I couldn't apply during my midterm, or where I put my keys this morning.
The ghosts pass by after spending a while making home under my skin. The small parts of them linger, like skin particles and hair all over the apartment. I do not study forensic science, but I pick them up and put them in sealed bags.
The evidence of someone sharing truths and secrets with me somewhere in the blurring fog of the past.
I wonder if they carry those little bits of me with them too.
I wonder if my bag is still sealed in a corner of their memory.
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Sometimes you want to go home but the lights are off and you wonder if you somehow wandered into the wrong house
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someone please draw Andrew in this tee, I'm begging-
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Regulus "who could ever leave me, darling? But who could stay" Black
James "I'm a mirrorball, I can change everything about me to fit in" Potter
Sirius "I can go anywhere I want, anywhere I want just not home" Black
Remus "You drew stars around my scars but now I'm bleeding" Lupin
Barty "don't blame me love made me crazy" Crouch
Evan "the story of us looks a lot like a tragedy now" Rosier
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Inside me is raging warm summer. The summer that once was. And once again I'm standing on the balcony, and the swallows are screaming in agony, circling around the roofs. And below me, in the yard, I can hear voices and shouts, and laughter, and barking, and someone's call. And people live. And people breathe. And people don’t think about the future, because there is no future, only warmth, and summer, and swallows, and every moment of laughter and voices. I feel like I am a little girl again, and I am afraid if I close my eyes I'll believe. The summer I'm waiting for will never come.
Because the summer I'm waiting for has already passed
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My charge reads, breaking and entering
I'm not sure that's what it's called if you've been given the keys
But I'm not saying that
My wrists are held with the cuffs
The next offense the court finds me guilty of is first-degree murder
I wonder why they didn't call it suicide, but I'm still alive I'm still alive I'm still alive
So, it shows
The last charge is of arson
And I burned this place down to the ground, leaving ashes, and ashes, and bones
I'm still sitting by the door when they come
I'm still wishing the smell of burnt flesh didn't linger on my skin
I'm still alive I'm still alive I'm still alive
Even if I'm not
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okay I created this account to post sad depressive quotes, but hear me out—
andreil watching saltburn
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My mom doesn't remember how to sleep anymore.
She stays up all night—I hear her turn on the computer, and its low hum bounces off the walls.
I hear her. I lie in bed, listening to her. For a moment—I feel anger. Why isn't she sleeping? What right does she have to not sleep, to strip me of yet another thing keeping me alive— being unknown, being unseen and unnoticed, and alone in the quiet of the night?
Then—I feel sorrow. Why isn't she sleeping? I wonder.
Perhaps, there are more ghosts to this house than I've noticed. Perhaps, I was too preoccupied searching for my own reflection
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writing, aching, crying with words on paper
i used to call them 'the vomit"
now, they're just 'tears'
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Every new year brings a new kind of same
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I think about all the lessons I've been taught and the fact that the knowledge never seemed to stick. It's like I'm repeating my own mistakes over and over again. It's like there's no way to live other than to repeat them
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"I hate happy people", I tell my therapist
Unsurprisingly she asks why
"Maybe, because I'm a bad person", I shrug
"Or maybe because you're just sad"
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