stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid

I'm still so unhappy every day. I'm filled with words that get locked in my throat.

The lights are dim as I sew my tongue down, the words will pile up until I suffocate or choke a few out. My shoulders fail to release a decade-long tension, my legs seize and my muscles atrophy, and I try to sort through this junk-mail littered brain though I've not once been convinced that the pile has been grazed at all.

There's nothing left here for me.

I have spent most of my life unhappy, constantly trying to pick up the pieces they've eaten off. I'm trying to look for anything, anything at all. I've fantasized revenge, disappearance, acceptance, freedom, and salvation, but settled on trying to ground myself in a half-fulfilled reality. 

Though that's not the reality, is it? You can't look at the truth of your reality, can you?

I've long since learned that the world is not created for young ladies like me, nor is it created for fawn to jump over fences.

I'll send out my paper airplanes dedicated to all who have hurt me, or rather all those I've known, and watch as each take a nose-dive straight into the river while my ribs curl in and crush my insides. 

Eventually, I will fall in the river too. 

And I secretly want them to suffocate me.