5 months later

It has been 5 months since you first put your pen to paper and mental vomit poured from your fingers.

You’re 3 pounds heavier,
Your hair is a different colour,
You have new friends,
you’ve lost the old ones to the bitter winds of time,
time and an inability to maintain conversation with people who are so trivially, incredibly, soul destroyingly boring

You’ve become more verbose,

Using your entire vocabulary in a single paragraph in an attempt to appear more educated, more wordly and more intelligent-

But you fail miserably because you have no life experience or actual knowledge to back up your words.

You are a sack of fleshy bones and meaningless words  that assault your tonsils and glide of your tongue oh so smoooooothly


Writing has become a chore

Which pains your very soul because that used to be all you where. You were the girl who wrote. The girl who crafted poems from the thoughts in her brain, the muscles in her fingers and the ink in her favourite pen and that made you interesting and special and creative and someone worth talking to, because you had depth, dammit-

And now you are two dimensional and flat and have very little to offer anyone besides yourself.

And you only have one thing to offer yourself,

And that is a gross crippling sadness over nothing in particular.


Isolation is a term you use lightly, in a jovial manner, you pretend you have no friends and joke with your parent(she doesn’t count) that you’ll die alone in a house filled with thousands of cats and not much else, and he tells you to shut up, girl, you’re only 17 you have the whole fuckin’ world in your hands and you laugh it off and pretend he’s right,

But inside you know you are right, and being 17 is no excuse for being socially toxic.


You have friends,

Never let it be said that you do not love your friends, because you’d take a bullet for them. You’d take thousands of bullets for those gorgeous human beings but they would not do the same for you and that hurts more than you can explain.

You listen to the troubles and woes and difficulties which plague their lives, which secretly you think are minor and trivial but you wire your jaw shut and offer compassionate nodding and hugs so tight neither of you can breathe,

And they do not do the same for you.



You’re 3 pounds heavier than when you first wrote down a third person account of all you were, and that sickens you.

Your clothes hang too loose or too tight and you are more uncomfortable in your own skin than you’ve ever been before, but you’ve done anorexia, and you’ve done bulimia and you cannot be a one trick pony. You cannot repeat history because that’s boring  and no-one will find it as shockingscaryterrifying

I n t e r e s t i n g

the second time ‘round

Because really,

That’s what it comes down to.

You want to be interesting.

You want to be someone worth writing about, reading about,

Thinking about.


You want to mean something to someone who isn’t yourself,

Because, really,

Even you don’t want you.

The End

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