I don’t know how to write.

I don’t know what to write.

I am forcing myself to write at this moment because I have no idea what I am doing and I don’t understand anything going on in my head.

Why am I crying?

Why can I not do the things I want to do?

Should I die? Both living and dying is too much effort.

I’m stuck.

I hate.

Which means I love… I suppose. I just hate it.

Help me? Do I ask that? But everything is fine, technically. And yet every time he says, “I love you” and I then feel obligated to say it back I suddenly know deep within me that nothing is fine. It never feels fine. Because I am ruining lives. I want to stop, I want to leave, but the logistics of my current world impede that from happening just yet.

Or how about when another says they are finding happiness elsewhere when you thought you tried hard enough, but also realized you weren’t supposed to be trying at all. Why would I add another name to my roster of personally ruined lives? Why would I do that to others to myself? And you know, then, nothing is fine in that section of your life either.

Then you realize how… You just realize.

Nothing is fine.

There’s nothing you can do about it.

I don’t know what I need. All I can bring myself to do is sleep, maybe clean myself up but I don’t even care about that anymore. I don’t want to eat. I don’t know what I want.

It’s difficult to write.

I don’t know how to write.


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