Hunger

Day 25

No change. Nothing. Still crying like a child. Still praying to blablablabla.
I am done with this place, I want to leave. University. Somewhere, anywhere. I am done with the faces I see in the street, done with considering the lives they lead and if they have ever felt as dejected and worthless as I do.

Don't contact me.
The entire world knows the three words which can make a lifetime be encapsulated in one, fragile moment.
Yet bashing inside my skull are the three words which I never wanted to hear from him. Does he mean it? So many insist he doesn't and even he admits so many times that he speaks rashly when he is angry, and oh he was fucking angry. Everyone has repeated that he could never mean that, not after all of... what ever was it? I respect his words, rash or not, no matter how painful.
My friends are indescribable. If they were not here I honestly do not know if I would be either. Sylvia is back back back. And my therapist is off off off on holiday. Perfect. But my friends - their shoulders must be aching for the amount of times I've fallen into them, bawling and unstable. I want to be a chameleon and shed this tiring skin and be some one new.
You chameleon of heartburn
I just remembered a poem I wrote... I haven't written in so long, words keep coming to my head but I'm almost too scared to write something. Mostly because I know I could never sum this up in a few verses of adolescent, amateur poetry which is pretty shit anyway.

I've finally put my thumb on the very worst moment of each day. Waking up. They describe it in books, films, songs. But the accuracy never hit me. Literally the very second that my consciousness is awake, I hear mother on the phone, the television is barking, the kettle is hissing, traffic is yelling, I think of it all in a blinding flash. That one second and its all back. I think of nothing else for the next hour or so that I lie in bed, in that odd position, when your tears roll down the sides of your face and into you ears because you're sprawled on your back. One second and its like a choking punch in the ribs.

After all he has said and done, he might as well slice open my body, rip out my heart, stamp it into the concrete with his converses or those checkered shoes of his, which someone bought for him while he was at work, pick it up and smash the mangled organ a few times against a brick wall before dropping it into the corner of his life. Because it would make no difference to anything really.

Those three words. Not the frozen ones he pushed into my head. The other, infamous, human ones.
Goodnight.