2004-01-06 - 9:58 p.m.
I feel dead and tired, thrown under a ton of earth, waiting for the worms to bury through the earth towards me. I can see the sun poking its way through the gains of soil, like stars glowing in the night except this light is warm.
You call. Your voice is tired. Like always. But the distance between us dwindles and I don’t feel the heaviness of the months which separate us.
I am no writer. These words don’t flow from my finger tips, or drop like water molecules in a rain fall. They drag and suck at me. I am no writer.
It’s been ages since I’ve written such a piece, I’ve almost forgotten how. Like the old bike I used to ride in a black and white film, it’s squeaky and needs oil.
I need to cut. It’s been a year and half. How did I go that far? I stopped surrounding my self with fucked up people, shadows in the dark. But now their back, stabbing at my heart, waiting for the glimmer in my eye, the fear, and then they latch. This writings seems false, lacking in honesty. The craving is here because I was at a party, and someone forgot they were forty today, and made a childish comment.
And now I’m crying. I feel despicable. I feel unworthy to be looked at. I feel disgusting. And I want to cut the life out of this body.
