you can't eat my brains because i've already eaten them for you.

-disclaimer-
There isn't really any place for me to write anymore, besides on paper, that will be very private, or that will be very gratifying, and I'm not sure I remember how to pick up a pencil but I won't apologize either because everyone needs to get things out sometimes, and I might work here but I'm a people too, and though this isn't and shouldn't be made into a public issue, I'm posting it here because I basically have nowhere else to go.
-end disclaimer-

-journal entry-
I can't sleep or breathe or think or smoke or eat or s**t or complain or speak or walk or move or exist anymore, again, without somehow letting you infiltrate me again. And it is driving me mad and my stomach hurts and my liver burns and my brain is eating itself and I have nowhere to go because everyone already knows how you've treated me a million times and nobody wants to hear about it anymore. so I twiddle my thumbs and walk in spirals down the same road I've been forced to escape from thirty some-odd times.

You've stolen my dignity and sanity while I've given you my last five bucks, much needed advice, fiendishly coveted adderall, warm bed, gas, electricity, favorite pajama pants, most innocent and at times indecent kisses, severly tested patience, last french fry, last cigarette, and last pair of clean socks. (Truth: I'd give it all to you again even if things would go exactly as they have the last fifteen times.)

Its hard to tell the difference between whether I just don't like what's at the end of the trail you've probably blazed with 30 other girls, can't figure out where the end is, or just don't want it to end.

-fact-
i totally get off on being lost, haunted, ruined, distraught, helpless, torn to pieces by, at the hand of, as a result of,

You.
I do.
-end fact-

As long as it has everything to do with you, I don't care if I'm used, crushed, beaten, bruised, kissed, loved, needed, or fucked (scarred is a given). It's being left behind, ignored, forgotten, treated like or lumped in with the rest that cuts deepest.

Dear Chicago,

Please...

I don't know. nevermind.
-end journal entry-

Author's Note

not really looking to polish this piece. just want to put it somewhere and since i work all over the net i pretty much have no other choice but to post it here.

Reviews

[Steven]

what is it about that thing inside that walks somewhere, and then gets there, and goes, "s**t..." knowing all the while where it was headed, distracting itself past signs to go somewhere else? introspection can be so tiring though, so unnatural. It's much easier to be, whatever that means.