Insecure. Unmotivated. Insincere. Morbid. Plastic. Transparent. Naive. Self-destructive. Pitiful. Lost. Forgotten. Nostalgic. Disappearing. Vengeful. Broken. Misguided. Manipulating. I'm a thief, so hide your belongings. He has not a clue about how my life hangs in the balance. I fear for myself beyond what mere words can describe. There's going to be a murder commited. The victim: whatever warm spots are left within me, amidst a sea of self-hate and insecurity. And no one knows it. This immutable voice inside me, pleading its believable case to me, pushing my thoughts to harm myself for the betterment of mankind. I'm slow to hand out promises of my own safety, for I have no idea what lies ahead. All I know is that I'm scared to death. And still no one knows. I require too much to ever be content. Everyday it becomes a little more clear that I'm not meant for this place for much longer. I hurt. Continually. For with each breath I take comes the stabbing pain of heartbreak, and a troubled exhalation. I am a tragedy. I often picture myself at age 3, and then now, at age 22, and cry at what I've become and mourn over all of the innocense that has fled from me permanently. You'll all be shocked. I don't know how much longer I can talk myself down from this ledge.
Bleak
10:54 p.m.//05.28.05
Mood: Unstable
Sound: All the lies
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