Daymares

I have daymares. They're like daydreams

But nightmares. 

they send chills down my spine because they remind me of moments I wasn't even there for, 

And I put my hands in my face because I don't want my daymares to see me tremble the way I do, because that's how they know they've won.

I almost crash my car because of it, but sometimes I think it would be easier than feeling a constant numbness in my chest. 

And I don't find much to stay alive for, but I still do. I just can't help but plug my nose as this tidal wave crashes down on me, crushing me and hitting me like a ton of bricks or another wordless night. 

I always think it can't get worse, so I'm good right where I am, because it feels like it's not gonna get better. And the fact that my low expectations have saved my life is rather sad to me. But you know what they say:

Nothing kills man faster than his own head. 

Ms. Communication

I'm saving this for when I can trust you again, And if you're reading this, then you know you've done the impossible. 

I had less than 6 hours to dream, and I gave one of them up to you in exchange for a bittersweet nightmare, one where the dam finally broke.

Where I learned things I maybe didn't want to hear because a part of me knew it already. 

Where I learned that we both have the same fear of speaking, when it could've been overcome at the same time. 

I learned that I forgive people too easily, and that maybe I shouldn't have forgiven you. But if there's one thing I've learned from my parents neglegance, it's that patience is key. 

Even though at time I felt I had to resist putting a hole in the nearest wall, or the chills went down my spine like throwing boiling water into -20° weather, the last thing you said was "I love you too."

Maybe things did work out. Unless you don't see this. But if you did, then thanks for cooperating with me. And for listening. It means a lot. 

With love, 

An Addict With A Pen. 

Duct tape can't fix everything.

Sometimes I think I have the strength to tell you what's in the stomach of my brain, but no matter how hard I try, I can never throw it up onto the page where you can see it. 

Sometimes I think I have the strength to tell you "I miss you too, but do you really mean it? Because I haven't seen you in a month. And all I want is for someone to care." But all that comes out is: I miss you too. 

And there I go again, getting my strings pulled by a puppeteer that isn't even there when I look up. 

Soccer.

I remember when I was a kid, and I was put into sports because my parents had hope for what I would become. I remember all I saw on that open field was neverland. I never saw a sport, or white lines painted on the grass, I saw a place to do cartwheels, and run as fast as i could without being judged. 

Then I remember the realization that I wasn't good at what I had been put there to do. That I wasn't as aggressive as the other kids on the team. 

I was always told to sit this one out at recess. 

The only thing I could seem to do correctly was swing on the swings. Even then, I could never do a backflip off, like the kid next to me. I remember that jumping off the swing felt like it could last forever, because I felt so alive up there. 

I remember always being the last one picked in dodgeball, and always the last one back in, because I was never too good at throwing the balls very far. 

People always ask why I'm not as excited as them. I don't really know why, maybe I'm just afraid to be. 

If home is where the heart is, then what do I do with this empty chest?

My life for the past few years has been a plane ride full of empty promises and made mistakes. The only problem is that I have no idea where this plane lands. 

I've picked up my pieces and had to reassemble them more times than I can count. I tried so hard to peek through the blindfold this time around, but no matter how hard I try, I can never seem to pin the tail on the donkey. 

I can't go see a doctor, because I'm too afraid to even get my oil changed. If it means coming outside of my wall, I tell myself it's better to not do it at all. 

How can a doctor tell me what my problems are when I can't even diagnose myself with a sense of self worth, or a simple ability to tell someone how I feel? Now THAT's why I have this page. Because I'm too afraid to rip the duct tape off my heart, for fear that it might hurt too much. And I'm sorry, miss you-know-who, but lying's all I've learned, and I know you hate when I write about you but I also hate that even if I did tell you in person, I'd not get a response. 

I wish to myself every 12 hours to hear from you, or to at least have someone come along to mend this rift, but every 12 hours it seems someone comes along just to make it wider. 

And I pray more than I've ever prayed in my life to be able to find some rest from this tornado in my head, from this hurricane in my heart, this tsunami in my soul, and I've reached the brink of desperation, and I find it hard not to 

Jump. 

Post-it one-liners

Sometimes, I laugh really hard because it numbs the pain burning in my chest. 

Hope & My Heart

Dear journal, today was a different day. I woke up later than the midday sun came across the sky, and I spent all day with my best friend. The night started out fun, and I didn't feel any pain up until around 11:00. It's funny how it almost becomes a ritual, every night I can feel my heart trying to bury itself in my ribcage, and my brain telling me I need to stop listening to my heart, and start listening to my head, because all my heart wants is to be hurt. 

My heart has suicidal tendencies, feelings of worthlessness, and a lack of motivation. My heart has trouble being around and dealing with people. My heart has trouble focusing and concentrating. 

But it has no problem with weight gain, no my heart is in fact so light that I either can't feel it beating in my chest, or It needs to be locked up in a hospital again. Either way, my heart has lost his mind. 

My heart likes to tell me to pursue love in the direction in which it's running away from me. And in fact, it's duct taped my brains mouth so that it can't tell me to speak up and to stop running in the wrong direction. 

It tells me that I have hope in places where hope avoids so carefully, because hope doesn't want to get hurt. 

As it sinks down in my stomach, it works its way around my body, cutting off the nerves I use to feel, making me blind to the pain I'm feeling because my hope doesn't like to talk to me. It makes its way up to my brain, causing every song I hear to remind me that hope isn't here right now, that hope is too busy giving her attention to everyone, because she gave me what she wanted to, and then turned her back on me as she placed me on the shelf. And I'll maybe just sit here until hope turns around, or maybe sees my emotions and conquer her fear of stepping into the dark, because I really need to be pulled out right now. I really just need to talk to hope. And I need hope to talk to me. 

"You wake up one day, and your legs, they just give. And you can't run anymore."

-Michael Townley 

I'm only writing this because I know you hate texting.

I haven't actually seen you since day before the New Year, and I gotta say that even when you're sick, and when you're dressed like you just came from the ski resort, 

You're easily the most beautiful girl I've ever laid eyes on. And I'm gonna try so hard to listen, and be a part of the conversation, and to talk. Because I want you to be happy, as much as I need myself to be happy. 

I don't wanna be heard, I just wanna be listened to.

I have a strong testimony of 11:11 wishes. And I find it funny how we become religious only when it's convenient. How we can sin on the weekends, but sing praise in church on Sunday. 

We find ourselves praying only when we need something from our God, and scream at him when he doesn't give it to us, like our lives are supposed to be perfect if we say a prayer right after murder. 

We fall to our knees so much more when tears fall down our face. We pray to a God that we don't believe in, because she's got time while I've got freedom. 

I just find this double standard so funny, and ask why we make promises in the first place if we aren't going to keep them. Now maybe the reason nobody has kept promises they made me is because I couldn't keep my promises until now, and even when I try, I still end up in tears. 

Because God, my knees are getting bruised, and my heart is getting sore, so please if you won't answer my prayer, at least read this letter. 

1:11

Does 1:11 count as a wish, too? Because sometimes I feel like one wish at 11:11 isn't enough to get what I'm wishing for. 

Too late now, it's 1:12. 

Don't go

You are so spectacular. You glisten in the dark of night. You sing in the quietest of places. Your song is that of need, and I find myself singing along. 

I find myself shivering even under my covers, because I'm afraid of not finding my solace.

I find myself waiting all night, alone and dead, patiently in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for a call, literally praying to God that I can find some way to fill up the cracks. 

I wish silently that you would speak your mind, so I can untangle the knot in my heart and in my head, because I feel so alone even with my loved ones surrounding me. 

I find myself trying so hard to open my mouth and speak, but the way I'm gritting my teeth and spelling out my own lies almost makes it not worth anything.