FDR had nothing on me.

Some cut. Some burn.

I bash.

I can see it in your eyes
I can hear it in your voice
the signs are obvious
that all we had has run its course

—Matchbook, Strung Out

The hardest thing isn’t knowing this’ll end, because the certainty of such a fact was clear from the moment we started. It’s knowing that the end is coming and still falling in love that’s the hardest.

How can I distance myself when everything you do draws me closer? If only it wasn’t so fruitless to keep reminding myself that this will never last. All that can be said is that it’s worth it. Everything I’ll be feeling soon is worth another night lying next to you, worth another morning waking up with you.

So give me one more kiss, one more taste of your lips, and tell me how much you’ll miss this.

“crazy bitch still looks good!”
“dont look man”

I’m exhausted but I’m not tired. I must sleep but I can’t sleep.

Sometimes I wish I was strong enough to gut myself. I’d make a line across my stomach, proping myself against a wall, and try to pull my intestines out to see how far they’d stretch. I’d make a hole on the left with the tip, curved for better control, and drag to the right with the edge. To enlarge the hole, turn the knife blade facing away from you and place between your index and middle finger as a guide. I’d cut my arms open and tear out the flesh to make sure I couldn’t sow myself back together. Sometimes I just draw the lines on my stomach, mixed in with all the writing, and imagine that the coldness of my pen is the chill.

For some reason, it helps.