Days.

I want my life to bloom into something beautiful.

I want it to be horrible and rotten, swollen, tightened unto itself, rotting.

And then, I want it to bloom.

I want that which is horrifying and deadly to become something which bursts into new.

Instead, all is the same.

It is surprising in itself that I continue to try. What a strange thing. But seriously, why continue in this way? There needs to be a new. This limbo needs to die.

I seem convinced things are one way, or they are another.

I am nothing but convinced I cannot exist split in half.

But, I do.

I want that magic day where everything is ok, but instead, I am promised a process. I hate process.

I am tired of being misunderstood. I’m tired of what I try so desperately to explain to be nothing but suggestions. I’m tired of who I am seen as being nothing like who I really am.

And mostly, I am tired of having no idea who the hell I am.

Yes, I try to trust that I am who you say I am. But you say I am ok, no matter what.

That, that. That’s ridiculous.

I am trying so hard to make enough mistakes to make what happened to me make sense. I’m trying to deserve shit. I’m trying to have a reason to want to kill myself.

And I was so desperately trying to be ok before. When all those things happened to me. I was trying to prove that I was ok, and so many things happened to me. Things that children shouldn’t know about, happened.

So what, now?

I’m supposed to stop trying to have a reason for that to have happened?

I’m supposed to stop creating death for myself?

I, who think I’m doing well because for once I am not trying to kill myself?

Who, for once, drive and don’t wish to crash and die?

God, your idea of me,

I don’t agree.

I just don’t.

It doesn’t make any sort of sense.

I am not what you say I am.

I’m sorry, I know you want something else for me.

But that’s not who I am. You’re wrong–I deserve death, always. I need to make this make sense.