this shithole used to be a place to throw rocks into– a place to vent and scream 

and writing for it makes me painfully aware of how much of the same i feel, of how much i hate my body, how intensely i feel every centimeter of my skin, every patch of skin that isn’t healthy, my own breathing, harsh against my lips as i’m forced to count the seconds that pass. 

i’m worse than ever. lonelier, more aware of what i do and the behavior that poisons me.
with noone to speak with reliably besides my two partners- an endless search for a “comfortable friend” who can make my head feel like home.  even after that has failed time and time again. 

why do i keep pushing? why do i keep trying? i will never feel at home with myself.
there isn’t a stable state of self for me to exist in.
there will be no happy ending to myself, only moments of less pain
so, again.  what is the purpose of trying to keep people with me?

i guess being remembered and perceived gives a sense of purpose, but what is purpose without determination? isn’t it selfish? to achieve nothing, to become nothing and still thrist for validation? 
what is wrong with me?

iwnbaw and with any bad chace, ngmi
there are a thousand reasons i can think of why my efforts are subpar and not enough.
there are a thousand and one reasons why i should be content with the bare minimum.
there are a thousand and two explanations to why i’ll never be above average or outstanding.
there are a thousand and three ways in which my head is broken or malfunctioning. 
and there are millions of reasons why i will never be enough to me or anyone else

i hate being alive 

i hate my body, my soul and species 

i will never be content with my appearance, body, species or achievements 

why was i born? was i brought just to suffer?  why?  

..  WHY?

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