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I can’t seem to feel much. I’m getting angrier for sure and a little more reckless. Before I had something to come home too but now? Not so much. Don’t really care. I don’t like being in this house anymore, I hate food, I want more tattoos and piercings, sleeping is a chore and the exhaustion is my allowance.
I’m aware I’m getting worse and I’m aware my progress is beginning to relapse but I can’t find it in me to care anymore. I want to go home but I have no clue where it is. It’s not here anymore. I thought it would come back when his ashes did but it didn’t. It’s just a resin urn.
I’ve been numb all this time but now I’m writing out my thoughts and feelings. Things that’ll never be read or acknowledged. The tears are stinging my eyes and irritating my cheeks. Why did I do this to myself? Why did I let this happen to myself? I feel like it’s my fault, everything is my fault even the things out of my own control. I blame the cancers on myself, I blame the deaths on myself, I blame the fires on myself, I blame the assaults on myself, I blame the conflict on myself. Everything would be ok if I had just been born normal but I wasn’t.
I’m hanging from the top of bamboo scaffolding by my hair. Each small problem and even the smallest issue that occurs breaks a strand of my hair.
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