Sleep would be wonderous if I had a mind that tired.

lol I just tweeted something to prove the irony of the statement I had predicted.

Everything I’ve got to give has been given and I don’t know if there’s much more to hang on to. I don’t understand what I’m even writing about. All I know is that I feel it. I ache because I’m unable to define myself any more. What are you? Why must you invade me? Get out. I can’t handle the exhaustion any longer.

I am a ship and I have crashed into an ice burgh. This sinking will never end. I wish I never made friends.

Nothing feels sane anymore. Everything has turned fake. Everything I love has become vengeful. I just can’t take anymore of it. Nothing pleases me anymore. I need new and fresh. My friends have become predictable, my thoughts are no longer original, and it feels as if the opinions that matter seem to think I’m a fake. Maybe I am, or maybe it’s someone that’s making it seem so. I don’t like sharing what my heart desires, but the only way I feel I can remain slightly with myself is if I say what it is I want most first. I don’t enjoy this. I just need a break from my sob story; from their sob story.

Ignorant girl, this isn’t all about you. You’re not the only one who’s hurting. I can’t help it. I’m a walking travesty.

Your existence has no importance. You feel as though everything you’ve done or touched has been mistaken. You attempt no harm towards anyone and yet everyone is out to suffocate you until your very last breath. They release you so you know what it was like to be under such horrific means. Something has you risking yourself still for them; allowing them to control your love that you give or the pain that you feel. They are your friends, your family, and even sometimes your subconscious. They steal from you as if you’re worthless. They make you feel as if everything you have ever done has no authenticity to it; it’s just become overdone. No one believes you when you’re hurting, though. No one tries to understand. You’re just a fake to them. No one will ever be able to see what you see through your eyes. There’s no use in trying. There’s no use in anything. And then you just breathe, because it’s the last thing you’ve got to hold on to as your own.

My identity has been stolen. Who am I anymore?

I don’t open myself up to people that I know too often because I feel that my insecurities to them are seen as cries for attention. I can honestly say that I’m just reaching out for comfort. I don’t like who I am, but I’d love for someone else to show that they might.