I have to try so hard to be good enough for you. Even then, I’m still a piece of shit. I’m not the only punching bag in this family, why don’t you use your fists on something that doesn’t bruise as easily. Literally. How am I supposed to know what I deserve when I am raised by someone who is supposed to be the figure who teaches you what it is, but instead shatters the hell out of your cheeks, and kisses the crests of his knuckles with victory, licking the blood of his fingers like he’s done. But even in the midst of the blow, I’m smart enough to know that that’s not it, that’s not what I deserve. You can’t just make a feast out of my wounds.

How am I even only 16. I have the dying soul of a 40 year old.

Because before too long, you'll be a memory.

Today, I thought about how I used to be okay with being ugly, and having all these unnatural flaws that were entirely my own, and how I had them for a reason, that I was built through spiteful hands with good intentions, like maybe I would be the complete epitome of "Beauty is skin deep" and all that cliche bullshit.

But now.
I think I'm just unfortunate when it comes to myself.

Alone and lonely. It's been a wonderful Friday night.

(Something I scribbled on the corner of my notebook today)

I kept thinking
about dying
and how
I really wanted
to die, but
I imagined my
suicide, the
police cars,
the deafening
sound of my
mom
collapsing
and I realized
that I could
live a thousand
apologetic
lifetimes after
and never be
able to
take back
such a cowardice
and selfish
decision

Putting this blog back to use. I even forgot I had one, it's been two years since I've posted on here. I've blushed, even in solitude, from looking back at my old posts so I've reverted them back as drafts, except for one.

It's good to be back.