i don’t tell him that i know what kind and how many to take. i don't tell him sometimes i cry when i wake up because, fuck all... i woke up. i don’t tell why my arm is black and blue when he asks, because how do you explain to someone normal what it’s like to be so empty inside that you feel like you’re just skin? to be so wilted that you bash your own arm against the dresser again and again and again because you feel like you have no bones, because you need to see if you will break?
don't worry, lonely reader. that's from something i wrote a long time ago. but i'm feeling rather worthless today.
tomorrow will be better.