tonight i realised something.
you don't even KNOW me.
i've been living; breathing; screaming; crying; dying; hoping; dreaming; wishing; bleeding for so many years and you don't even know the half of it.
you don't know what i've been through; you don't know the nights i've spent crying myself to sleep; those moments crawled up in a dark corner wishing i was dead; you ignore the scars on my wrists (it never happened; it was just a dream...) and you just TALKtalkTALKtalkTALK without me able to get a word in between.
tell me, when's the last time you asked "how are you?"
yeah, i didn't think you'd remember.
honestly, i don't really get that mad at people often. i really don't.
but perhaps you're the exception because we had something so awesome that no one else could taint but you threw it all away.
i'm sick of smiling, laughing, caring, listening, just in general, doing all those nice things a good friend would do. these days, i'm not even sure if it makes a difference.
you make me feel like nothing - so insignificant that i can't even be compared to an ugly speck of dust that eats away at a pretty girl's face. and i hate that you have so much control over me even though you're not exactly the lead role in the movie of my life. i fucking HATE IT. it's stupid and naive; pointless and painful...i just wish i could trap it within the lyrics of "the best deceptions" and throw it away...throw you away. but i'm not strong enough. i'm weak and blinded by the thought of having all our pretty memories of the better times to hold on to. but in the end, it really equals nothing divided by all the ugly flashbacks i have of me minus you and vice versa.
And it tears me apart that after all this time; after ALL THIS TIME, you inspire me so. i can just think of a single thing you said or did to me and voila, the words; the phrases; the imagery and poetry just come out of oblivian and onto a blank white screen resembling manifestive black widow spiders that crawl amongst the pure whiteness; hidding innocence beneath worn-away silver spiderwebs.
why is it YOU?
WHY IS IT YOU?
why not the boy with the street punk records and the leopard print hair who's like oxygen to me? why not the girl i've known since forever who moshes to industrial music and sees the world through camera lens? why not the girl in california who shares my love of rainbow sprinkle donuts and dashboard confessional songs? why not the boy who believes in aliens and frankly doesn't care what other people think about him? why not the girl who's obbsessed with tolkein novels; whom no one understands but makes so much sense to me? why not the canadian boy who can speak perfect french and hides pictures of seven year old himselfs wearing speedos? why not the boy in michigan who is so far away; yet so close to me through lyrics, smiles and always-the-right-thing-to-say?
they're so special in a way that no one else can see and they've made some of the biggest, most positive influences in my life than you EVER could in a lifetime. and i'm not just saying this to be melodramatic or make you feel like you're the one who's wrong because i MEAN this.
i remember back when we started talking we shared notes of life, hope, truth and trust. i remember you told me sometimes you hated life immensely because it was so screwed up and sometimes you just felt like ending it all but i still wanted you around. i remember when i gave up my best friend just so i could talk to you. i remember the nights that i let my friends down just to be able to type you a few more words. i remember sitting in the rain just so i could hear your voice and hope that that would be enough to keep me breathing for the rest of the night.
And THAT'S what keeps me up; thinking; thinking; thinking away into random late nights. that's what makes me cry sometimes when i'm all alone with nothing to hold on to. that's what makes me clam up and want to fade away into nothing when i'm surrounded by noise, laughter, and meaningless words. and that's the worst part: that i REMEMBER. that i remember even though i know i should forget.
why can't i erase you from my memory?
in english lit., we once studied a poem a man had written in dedication to his seven year old son the day his son died. he felt that it was the best piece of work he'd ever done.
so i can't remember how many pieces of work i've dedicated to you. and they may be smeared with pain and rejection and tears and blood, but people still manage to find beauty in between the lines (perhaps they're just reading with rose coloured glasses).
i hate that you've tainted my life. i hate that you made an impact on me at some point; however big or small. i hate that i still care about you in whatever way even though you probably don't give a shit about me.
And i remember the time when i slit my wrists and you told me not to because you loved me too much. and no, the reason i hurt was not because of you, even though i feel you are equivalent to the razor kissing my wrist; the pills sliding down my throat and the noose tightening around my neck. _____________________________FULL STOP.
i can't do this anymore. close my eyes. breathe. blink back the tears and smile like the sun just came up with the breeze on sunday morning.
promises break friends, but even though we never made any, this is all still coming to an end.
when kurt cobain killed himself, he left courtney and frances a note that read: "i'm sorry; i'm sorry; i'm sorry. i'll be there, i'll protect you. i don't know where i'm going. all i know is i can't be here".
the words i'm sorry are rushing around my head in dizzying circles with a sugar high speed because i'm sorry; i'm sorry; i'm sorry. i never meant all those things i just said.
and right now i'm breaking down because i don't know why i just spent an hour typing up all that hate, lies and melodrama. perhaps i'm just a pathalogical liar like winona ryder's room-mate in girl, interrupted. i remember my mother comparing me to angelina jolie as lisa in the scene where she revealed her arm filled with cigarette burns and it brought tears to my eyes because a) i don't smoke. b) i don't intend to stick flaming cigarette butts into my wrists. i felt like calling you up and crying down the phone, reliving that paticular moment of my life and i imagined that you would undserstand what i went through and make me feel better with a few simple words and make me laugh with talk of something totally unexpected and strange.
but i didn't call you because it was late; and you would probably be busy with your frieds; drinking and unlike me, you have a life you can live.
i've kept much too many secrets away from everyone and they all lie in an untidy pile on top of my heart; suffocating me; slowly killing me. and i cannot tell anyone, i repeat to myself every single day, in a mantra-like trance because they cannot handle it; they cannot take it and i don't want to taint their pretty rainbow watercoloured words; i don't want to hurt them like i've hurt myself.
please, god, if you really do exist, don't ever let any of my friends or family go through the pain, tears, blood, insanity, deleria, confusion, suffocation, numbness, general fucked up stuff that i've gone through and so much more. please let them be able to live their lives and give them the courage to not be afraid to wake up everyday, breathe and fucking LIVE - laugh for no reason and run with the wind and dance to punk rock and love like it's the only thing in the world that matters. let them be able to make all their pretty glow star magick dreams come true; making them into a break-the-snowglobe-and-shine-in-the-real-world reality.
please, god, if you really do exist, just make this possible for them - even if i end up a bitter, empty, tainted girl who will not live to see her twenty-first birthday because she overdosed herself on pills and vodka on a bathroom floor - please don't let them end up like me. because if i can't be happy then at least everyone else in the world should be. because it's hard to see the rain when the sun is shining down like a mega-watt-bulb and everyone else is taking black and white photographs of rain-stained smiles beneath neon lights apart from the girl looking out the window in her four-walled prison tracing broken hearts on the misted glass.