I rarely write for an audience anymore. I still write, scribbled notes in sketchbooks and notebooks and stray pieces of paper that just get recycled, just like I recycle my words.
I was type cast.
I swing wildly from not caring about anything to feeling and caring about everything too much. Like an addict, emotions are either not there or crowding the room. It’s like losing my mind, except going crazy was never this poetic (or romantic).
I feel abandoned by the Erin-I-might-have-been. I feel abandoned by friends and family, but I’m just a shell and I got up and fucked off. Leaving me sitting here with old words and familiar scenes.
How boring it is to be stuck in negative spaces with negative feelings. You can’t save me if I can’t save myself. When the words on the page won’t go in and the music sounds as flat as the cake I tried to bake.
All I can offer you is fluffy sentences of nothingness, just like my hands, just like my heart. You can’t stop the tears if they won’t fall and you can’t stop the bleeding when you’re already dead. It’s morbid but so am I, I suppose.
I’ve been here before, so many times. I’ll be here again too, and sometimes I have to wonder what I did to deserve this. If you believe in previous lives I was either terrible or I’ve never done this before, it’s extraordinary how much I get wrong. That’s just showing off though, despite Imogen Heap singing about it, there is never any beauty in the breakdown.
The bloody raw screaming mess is ugly, the soul searching (if you ever believed I had one), praying to a god I don’t believe in that was probably not listening anyway.
Today I’m alive, but it doesn’t feel like it.