“I failed” “again” LOL–“HAH”

I guess I’m supposed to be sad. Upset maybe, defeated probably. I am defeated, but I’m so accustomed to this feeling, it doesn’t bother me in the least. Defeated is a wonderful way to be. You ever heard a squeak, a pop, a burst; from a balloon that never got inflated? Didn’t think so. I mean, if you take it and really really rub it on itself, it makes some upsetting sounds. You gotta work at it, tho.

Here I am, trying to make something, trying to start something, and I’m using it as a diary. Is this self-sabotage, too? Am I completely nuts, now?

Was I always nuts, or am I just “going through a hard time”? Aren’t we all? Why does my hard time deserve mercy? I don’t think it does. Good thing, too, because mercy is a mirage. I don’t understand anything, anymore. The more I learn, the more I notice, the less I understand.

I put myself out there again and again I failed. Again I fell. Again I tumbled down, broke my soul a little more. Shattered my self, tarnished my pride. I have an excess of pride, if I was religious I might see this as a problem. I’m not, so I unfortunately kind of rely on my pride to stay alive. The no.1 reason I will never ever commit suicide is because I am too goddamn proud. I think this is a pretty winning strategy. No matter how loud that voice talks to me, I find enough pride in my art. I find enough pride in myself to tell it to go to hell.

I would be sad, but I just have so many goals on my radar right now. The thing that I failed at was my old self’s goal, my old self’s dream. She kinda died, I murdered her. Forreal like, last week sometime. She died when that coma lady in AZ gave birth. JK, but am I?! How did my old self really die? Pillow, slowly, over multiple weeks. Gradual, spiritual and metaphysical suffocation/murder of myself. So like, is it even a failure if she gonn’ an’ died?

I would be sad, but she wanted to die. She’s always wanted to die, she never wanted to be here at all. She never really was there. She only exists in other people’s eyes. I am who they talk to, I am who they know, she is just who they see. My dad would say I’m crazy, but the truth is that everyone else is insane. How anyone could talk to me, see me, love me and know me, and not know who I really am is insane.

To think that she is me, is insane.

Don’t judge a book by it’s cover, right? Nonsense. That’s all anyone ever does. I’ve been shuffled into the wrong section, wrong shelf, with the wrong cover on my whole life. I haven’t always been “judged” by my cover, but I am always seen with this goddamn fucking cover on.

My family only knows her. They’ve only ever known her. They think that since they can’t get to know her, that there is no one to get to know. What they can’t comprehend is that they have been trying to get to know someone who is LITERALLY AN EMPTY FLESH-SUIT. A person that does not exist, a person that is a costume. I am here, underneath the costume. I have always been here. You just have to be able to see me. I’m like, blinking to all of you in code.

S.O.S. bitches

I am a ghost in a flesh-suit. I cannot die because I’ve always been dead. I cannot fail because I am failure. I am not her because I am me. I cannot lol because I am too busy hah-ing.

I don’t even know.

Woe is me, yo. Whoa, is she me?



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