it’s just… sometimes, it just feels like i’ll only ever be worthwhile if i’m normal. and by normal, i mean perfect. and by perfect, i mean grown up. grown up like i can handle this myself grown up like grinding myself down to nothing and today is the kind of day where i hate myself but i hate myself less with coffee so therefore that has to mean that mental illness isn’t even a fucking thing. and that has to mean that you should just grow up, because everyone else has love. and why the fuck are you like this? and just please stop and don’t feel like you’re drowning in other people’s emotions, because god we just have too many emotions. and coffee tastes like insomnia, and insomnia tastes like productivity, and productivity tastes like hope, and 1a.m. smells like solitude and solitude means no one can control me. which is ironic, given the fact that i am controlled by my anxiety. and maybe i’ve only ever told myself that this is all i’m worth. late nights and treating my mind like a machine and it’s all ok as long as i can just pump out more poetry, and more stories, and more poetry. and it’s nearly midnight. and what i’m trying to say is i’m tired of chiselling myself to nothing and wondering why i feel empty all the time.
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