hold a gun to my head and tell me to write these pages for you

back here again, aren't we?
the yearn for a pencil in my hand and to write my little heart out until there's blisters, bleeding, between my fingers.
a feeling i so much hated yet also love and miss at that same time.

i yearn for the pain of my feelings, my sense of self, and my head. i've been feeling better recently and for some reason and its not as satisfactory as i thought it would be.
i want the hands of depression to hold me again as if i was a newborn baby and cradle me with such love and care, much like a drunk mother before she gets bored of her new creation of life.

i want everything to ache again. i want tears to fall on the pages of what was once my youth before i wasted it. i might as well stab this pencil through my chest like the mighty sword it is. i did it again. im stealing my own lines. i guess i'm running out of things to say.

wasting my time writing my feelings to the nonexistent readers of these things is my favorite thing to do. please do read about my need for hurt and forget about it after a day. forget about me after a day, actually. i don't think my existence is one meant to please. its one meant to drive people to the edge until i die, from someones murderous annoyance, or because someone put a gun in my hand for the first time. my head is my own target.

at this point, throw me into the ocean with a cement block tied around my ankle and watch as i struggle to claw at what was life. maybe i'll reincarnate into a crab and walk around in the sand, judging the sound of crashing water. i suppose it'd do a lot more good than bad if i were to just disappear somewhere into my castle that is the sky and what lies beyond outer space.