Your web-browser is very outdated, and as such, this website may not display properly. Please consider upgrading to a modern, faster and more secure browser. Click here to do so.
I feel so awful. I want to be hungry and tired (but not sleepy) and alert (but not thinking intrusive compulsive depressive thoughts). I want to be in starvation mode, running on empty, thinking rapid-fire weirdo thoughts every second, cutting to punctuate rather than to elevate. I want to be skinny and muscular and fixated, using exercise as a coping mechanism, hunger as a drug, calisthenics as self-harm. I want my scars to turn purple from cold, not from depth.
I want to see the effects of my actions, not just the colour of their marks. I want to see my muscles and my bones. I want to see the number drop; I want to see my hands and feet turn purple, my nailbeds turn blue. I want to see the bruises on my thighs intensify as I carry on exercising while diminishing my circulation. I want to hear The Author pronouncing The Words, the sacred words I cannot hear from anyone else.
The difference between her and Her is that I feel like she and I are equally fucked up in a compatible way, but I feel like She and I are fucked up in an incompatible way.
I will always feel incompatible with Her. I will always feel compatible with her.
She makes me feel like a better person, while She makes me feel worse.
I feel embarrassed around Her, but simply hesitant around her.
My hands are cold. I like it, because it reminds me of how I felt when I was genuinely undernourished.I want that time back.
If I go out with someone, we’ll have to be damned together.
I hate myself and I want to break up with my girlfriend because she’s way better than I am.
Page 1 of 117