I'm never going to escape. I am too fucked-up. No amount of medication and therapy will fix me or even mend me to the point of functionality. I am impractical. I am not meant to thrive. I am not meant to live this life.

I am too much of this and not enough of that. I need to be stronger but all I am is a beast. I'm inhuman. I'm a monster but with no secrets to share.

I am too much gut and not enough brawn.

In the mirror, I am sagging with this disgusting weight. I am weak and oozing with this fetid filling, this overstuffed rot.

All I want is to be solid. Unyielding, unwavering, devout.

Everyone says I could model.
It's not that I don't want to.
I'd just rather be the kind of model that walks around in a sports bra and gets paid to flex.

Nobody gets it.
I want to be a bodybuilder.

Will everyone love me from a distance? I feel like they have only loved me from afar, when I am beautiful and without the imperfections that are so readily sighted when you really look me in the eyes. That's the problem: When you really look me in the eyes, I break down into tiny pieces, tiny bits of flawed matter that really adds up to nothing except a distant beauty. I do not blend as well as I should, like fine china with so many fissures running through it, fragile and delicate and bound to shatter. I feel my heart beating and you can read between the lines, the cracks that let you see beneath my armor, and you can see the fine lines that hold me together--the nerves that cause my thick limbs to quiver with such fear. Because of when you held my heart in your crooked hands, I place trust in the wrong places. I imagine to see love in the eyes of leeches, where there is nothing in reality. There is no love lost in my life because there was none to be had in the beginning. I love and that is all that means anything. I love God. I love my family. I love my friends. I love everything and everyone, but I am losing trust. I do not expect to lose faith, but my trust wavers as the branches of a willow sway sadly in the wind. I am different every day. I am changing. I am breaking off in pieces so that I may acquire the new, the growth of time passing over my body. I imagine the air against my skin. I imagine it flowing through me, into me, off of me... and I think of you, and I brush you off, because when I used to think of distrust, I brushed it off. I have learned more by the crooked hands of man than by any leap of faith. It's what happens when you fall and expect to be caught: It's a rude awakening. I imagine it's like being ripped from purgatory with the expectation of manna, only to have your empty lungs filled with ice so cold it burns it's way through your body. I have been changed and I will grow from it and I will not let myself be hurt so easily ever again. I have avoided hurting others, but I will not allow myself to be wounded so greatly for their sake.

This is the end of my devotion, which once was boundless. I will not hurt others but I will not protect them, because I cannot expect the same in return. Life is an ebb and flow of energies, but these lies have not been.

I AM NOT A RENEWABLE RESOURCE. Once I break, there's no repairing me.

I just downloaded three more songs by David Bowie, because obviously you can never have enough Bowie. I have a feeling these three are rare just because they are extra weird. "Beauty and the Beast" has an especially odd opening.

I'm not doing well, lovelies. I'm pretty mad at some of my friends for lying to me, which sings clearly of underestimation on their part, because I am no fool. In response to the shocking realization of being used by my friends, I am retreating into isolation. I am losing weight, but I don't know how much because I don't weigh myself. I barely count calories. I just look in the mirror and restrict and binge and purge and thoroughly send myself spiraling into the bowels of hell. The sad part is that this time I know is has absolutely nothing to do with how much I weigh. I honestly don't think I'm fat. It's just a coping mechanism. I can tell how much I've slimmed down, even though I wasn't fat before that. I'm just... letting go.

I write really lusty poetry these days. I'm pretty sure I'm gay. I just wish rescue-relationships were readily available.

Fuck all of this.

fuuuuck this.

today I kept down:
soymilk, an apple and a grapefruit, and two slices of bread with peanut butter.

this suuuuuucks.

I don't love you, because if I loved you, I wouldn't be ashamed of it. I don't hate you, because if I hated you, I wouldn't keep it a secret. This is somewhere in between. Like in crawlspace and attics, stuck in fiberglass and old dusty boxes--where it belongs. If I ever loved you, now isn't when. Yesterday, the day before, and that day I almost cried... they weren't the times when I loved you. Looking back at photographs, I don't wonder why my love was nameless. It was amorphous, a feeling to be kept under locks with skeleton keys, and when it escaped... it wasn't spoken with the right language. I couldn't have done the true words justice, because they weren't there. It was never there--my love. It was always just in passing, from glance to glance and note to note, because I never sang you that song. It was just the swansong of my devotion. My heart is crimson, fierce and unkempt, tangled veins and arteries interwoven as a labyrinth. My love is a phoenix and it will crawl from the ground's spindly grasp, out of damp earth and with a mouthful of remembrance. Maybe this time it won't be for you.

You'll always be with me. I will never stop caring, but tonight I feel my blood grow just a little bit colder.

GAHHHHHHHHH. DO WANT! PLEASE FOR TO HAVE KITTY!

I really, really want this kitten. I mean, shit... her name is PANCAKE and she has a huge head. It doesn't get any better than that.

Today I went to my joint therapy session with the current and the new therapist. I'm going to miss my current therapist, but the new one seems pretty bright. I didn't know how to tell her that unless I get a good vibe almost immediately then I probably won't trust her enough to focus on the issues and I'll probably lead her on a verbal wild goose chase every time I'm uncomfortable. I was surprised we didn't just cover my history, but I'm thankful as well. They had the same idea for the most part: I need to chill the fuck out and make a realistic plan that will lead me to my goals. Baby steps and such so I don't get overwhelmed like I normally do. Take my medication as routinely as possible. Journal and write and basically utilize my creativity as an outlet of expression. Maybe try a little meditation. And although that last one sounds horrid, I may try some breathing and mindfulness techniques. Golly gee, I may even go for a walk.

GOALS FOR THIS WEEK:
-clean room and den
-fold some laundry
-relaxation exercises
-journal
-sobriety
-art
-interview (Tuesday @ 8:15)

GOALS FOR WHENEVER:
-buy writing prompt book
-move back into apartment
-get a kitten
-go vegan
-get car

OVERALL GOALS:
-get a job
-keep apartment clean
-take medication
-develop routine



p.s. i feel like i'm being used.

wrapped in pale paisley drapes,
I asked you your name.
"fairweather" isn't the name
of a lover.
it's the name of a confidante
who knows no loyalty.
you painted your lips with
crushed porcelain,
dust drying your mouth and
sticking between your teeth.
standing guard in my bedroom,
you knelt before my vanity and
drove the needle home.

I've missed you, baby. All the crackles of static magic snapping, popping in the air around us, lifting the hair from your skin. Unrest flutters at your throat in place of beats erratic.

I don't care enough to keep you. I don't know enough to leave you.