if this is what despair feels like then it's bitter and sharp and brutally indifferent. i want to punch things and in the morning i want see purple and yellow shapes on my knuckles as an outward manifestation of what's inside. i don't care to pray, i've never felt so lucid and cold and dead inside. and i feel alone because no one can step in and feel these things and know with certainty that i'm not crazy. i hate explaining. i can barely validate myself, let alone legitimate myself before the many hands outstretched in a helpless gesture. i can only give you stale morsels because i myself am starving
i'm only fucking twenty one
i'm only fucking twenty one
sidenotes;
in a really not good place