LMFAO THE TIMING OF REDISCOVERING THIS SONG

i’m ashamed to be witnessed in the art of wanting someone i could not have.

an excerpt

“maybe your emotions were just a hyper fixation that ebbed after days of nonstop conversation.

i enjoy talking to you.

i hope you think of me once in a while.”

“i don’t know the date and i’m too stoned to look at (for) my phone.
it’s taking a lot in me not to write more.
i wanna burn the notebook.
i miss you. …
i’ve lost a lot of weight. i don’t eat anything but opiates.”

everything is a reminder of what i couldn’t be for you.

i want my suffering to mean something. i want my pain to have purpose, to change something. otherwise, even through pity i have nothing, then i am nothing.

he has done more to deserve you than i have. he treated you well and cared for you without being spoon fed it. my self pity is disgusting and it will never fail to be.
aren’t you tired? texting me then ignoring me for days, seeing that i haven’t changed then repeating the whole process again. we’re not friends; we have too much baggage and i could never see you in that light. and we’re not together; we could never be for you are with someone and i haven’t changed. so let’s just stay in our lanes. you shall always remember me as the person who sought attention more than he cared for the person he was with. and i’ll stay damaged, as the person who those few months rung me out to be, forever encased in this endless torture between feeing good and at peace with myself, and feeling complete and utter hatred, insanity and anger towards myself and life. you moved on, i haven’t and it’s so pathetic to think it’s been a year and a half. i don’t know if i can move on but when anyone has you, my days are plagued with entropy.

“it feels cathartic to be able to say i’m abusing my liver because i want to, not because a woman abandoned me.”

why is he driving

he could be a jigglo

stretching sends a jolt of pain to my shoulder from when my arm contorted when i had a seizure. mundane tasks remind me of memories tied to the pain of my arm going behind me while i laid on it, unconscious and the color drained from the blood inside me. i detest that certain physical reactions grant unadulterated access to memory. although it is most commonly noted that desire is the reason for pain, memory has a stake in all the tears shed. i’d rather live with my memories rather than without them, but barely remembering any of the good things, but in detail recalling every move i made on the game i played in my friends room when i broke my sobriety on august of last year is an abhorrent consequence of consciousness.