and he was just, like, in disbelief, you know? like ‘what do you mean? how are you not in that situation? i don’t-’

which was kind of eye opening, you know? like its the norm for me, kind of weird that most people don’t know. so, dude who really needs to clean his nails, i’ll explain. or at least try. i cracked my phone screen a while ago- two weeks? maybe two months? i actually don’t know. anyway, i still haven’t had it fixed. and it’s such a simple thing, you know, take it to the shops to one of those little pop up booths where they hardly want to talk to you anyway, and its done in less than five minutes. but it just hasn’t happened. this one might not make sense, cause he’s a guy, but skincare. i literally could spend an extra thirty seconds using the products in the morning but i just don’t. iron tablets, for someone severely anemic, but when i’m stressed to that level i just can’t, like knowing exactly where the bottle is and why i should get up and take them, but i don’t. i don’t even unpack between houses anymore. piles of clothes in my room cause taking them to the laundry is too much of an effort. and yet somehow i still find the ability to straighten my hair everyday, because someone told me once that it looks better that way and at the very least i can miserably exist with nice hair. my hand bleeding, but not being bothered getting up to put a bandaid on it until twenty minutes later. the thick layer of dust on my bookcase. i haven’t made my own bed in months. ipad is nearly dead but i can’t get up to put it on charge. the same songs over and over and over again.

i feel as though i’ve run out of words, like there are so many things unsaid that i can’t choose any to cling onto and now i’d rather never say anything ever again if it could mean that the air felt a little thinner

on keeping myself alive;

i've done it and i've done it well. i am here, you are here, we are here. i have been here all on my own. i am living. i am surviving.

i am supposed to keep myself alive. but if i choose to heal, does that mean someone else will be able to help? be able to move my limbs for me, inhale, exhale, spin my brain around?

does recovery mean that someone else will keep me alive instead?

‘She was kind of a bitch..!’ How do I tell her we are still friends. We’re not. Alternate reality. That’s unlike her to be so crass. Her. Back from Vietnam girl. Scared girl. Should know better girl. You should’ve told me they were doing the wrong thing. I see her. Her hair's shorter and now filled with blonde pieces. Her smoothie cup isn't on top of the bags anymore. Are you sure I'm looking at the same person?

i want to tell you what it feels like but i genuinely don’t know this time. like all the times i used to say that i didn’t know, really what i should have said was that it hurt and that i didn’t know how to make it stop hurting. but now it’s not even sore cause there’s nothing for it to hold onto so i’m just here and so is everything else and there’s an alex g song that says ‘hold on tight to this time this place cause everything you know will be erased’ and it got me looking up my old houses and thats gone and this now will be gone and my god i don’t understand how you adults make peace with that. 

one day you think: I want to die. and then you think, very quietly: actually. actually. I think I want a coffee. a nap. a sandwich. a book. and I want to die turns day by day into want to go home, I want to walk in the woods, I want to see my friend, I want to sit in the sun, I want a cleaner kitchen, I want a better job, I want to live somewhere else. I want to live.

- via duckbunny

hand soap

i found some hand soap. it’s yellow, and i’ve got more than enough reason to believe that it wasn’t yellow when it was first bought. you wanna know why that is? its because it was in the bathroom downstairs, the one roleplaying as harry potter (cause it’s a door under the stairs) that has no working lights or lock, that hardly anyone ever uses. the soap was on the side of the sink. i think it’s been there since i was five. now it’s been rehomed. there was another one next to it and i fear that it misses it’s friend. however, going too far down that thought process is traumatic, because if it’s alive enough to have a friend, it’s alive enough to know that every time it touches the water, a part of it withers away, and that’s just a bit too much for anyone to bear. 

can’t you see?

see what, my darling?

me? can’t you use those eyes to see me?

tw ed, sh, si

i don’t want to be Lia. i don’t want red ladders or a bone corset; but part of me always will. i want white ladders, but i don’t want to make the red ones first. i want collarbones, but i don’t want to lie for them. i want to be institutionalised, but i don’t want to tell them. i want to jump, but i don’t want to stop breathing. i want to swallow them all, but i don’t want to drink the souls of the artists. i want to be dead, but i want to watch them know i’m gone. i don’t want to pull a disappearing act, but i don’t see anyone in the future playing dress-ups with my skin.

it's insane. watching a movie or reading a book that you haven't touched since you were little. it feels shorter. it feels like there was so much more to it when you were younger and it filled you up so much more- but now it seems like the scenes were too short or the chapters changed too fast. its the inconsistency of time.

when you watched a movie at age 6, it was an hour and a half out of six years, which is a much bigger percentage than an hour and a half out of seventeen. and maybe thats why some things seem so big while others seem small: maybe it all depends on how long you have to sit through the chapter or the scene, or how many times you have to reread or rewatch, or how many people are willing to sit and eat popcorn with you while you do it.

you don’t know me, and you never will

sometimes it feels like i was born backwards 😵‍💫