i keep having random dreams of being back at my mother’s place.
dreams of being with old friends, being held or sharing time with faces i know.  \

and i keep seeing my mother everywhere. in my forms of speech, in my frustrations, in my routines and nitpicks, in the way i do things and the way love and hurt.   \

and i have every last fucking second of it. 

i feel wandering, lost, unwanted and worthless– seeking a place, a feeling- fuck. anything.  
Anything.   that feels comforting. 

and all that i can find is silence.  and every day i use my voice less.  and every day i feel less, and i hurt more. 

and every time i hurt it sinks deeper, becuase i am homesock for arms that don’t even want to hold me anymore. because i am homesick for places that i’ll probably never see again.

because i’m homesick for the comfort and warmth and embrace that i can’t regain, simply due to the fact that i can’t unlearn, undo or revert the things that have happened. it would mean destroying us or destroying those we approach. 

and every day more.  and every night harder. and every week mor often. 
i wonder.  

if death would bring rest. being gone would hurt for a while. but it’d fade after a while.  \

 … 

in a strange way, am i really homesick for death? 
the closest i can get lately is sleeping, passing out or disassociating until it hurts too much. 

i don’t know. 

the last 5 times i tried they all failed. 
and i’m too much of a coward to try again without a solid plan. 

but then again, who knows and who cares.

i dont know. 

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