—Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
I wish I was strong enough to be okay with being weak. Confident enough to be unashamed about how I am lacking. Instead, I scream, only to clap hands over my mouth in horror, half-hoping and half-fearing that somebody else has heard it.
What sort of bloody fool does that make me? The kind who knows that she should disappear, but lingers quietly in the shadows anyway. The kind who says “I like you” to an empty room, just to feel the weight of words in the air. The kind who kills fifty million cells per second just to gaze agitatedly at the ceiling, clenching fists, but ends up falling asleep anyway.
What a phony, what a douche. Where are the owls? I need a distraction. The only people awake at 3am are the lonely and unloved. Hahhahahahaahhaha.
i wish that i could get to know you all over again.
just tonight, i will admit to them. i will close my eyes and let my fingers run over the keypads like heavy hoofs. the simplest things are the hardest to confess. i want life. i want love. i want so many things that everybody seems to possess or find without effort. i want… and already, i am recoiling in disgust and injury, mostly from the questions i shoot at myself. “why must it be like this, how must it be like that, what does it all mean.” the swollen silence bullies me into a corner. i can only stare downwards meekly, and scruff my fantasies into the dirt. these things are not meant for you, comprehendo? stop behaving like what you most dislike. oh, just float on, hapless and happy as always.