nothing about this is beautiful
sometimes i think about getting a gun and shooting myself straight in the face. in the middle of my nose, so there’s a big, gashing hole — and then my face won’t be able to be shown at my funeral. and my parents will remember finding me face down in a pile of vomit and blood in my bed. it’ll be angelic i assume. maybe then, i’ll have finally created something worthwhile. maybe then i’ll finally get recognition for my artwork.
but i won’t. and i know suicide isn’t the answer. but it’s a backup plan, one that i’ve already resorted to twice. sometimes when you get really depressed you remember that life is worth living, like, yeah, life is so beautiful but i can’t enjoy any of it. so i should obviously kill myself. the trees with their spindly dancer limbs, all graceful and on some level a little grotesque, the fields wildflowers that remind me of quilts. my great grandmas quilt i keep on my bed.
i couldn’t ruin that.
not even if i tried.
everything i touch is ruined: it’s a self fulfilling prophecy. keep friends away, two arms length, at least.
there are some days i find joy, though. like when i talk to people. they are so interesting — we think we are the center of the universe. just because so many bad things happened to us means we are doomed for life. and we aren’t. but no one — not even me — seems to realize that. i was talking to buddy, the smoke shop cashier, and he was talking about how he can’t get close to people or how no one realizes how truly fucked up he is and it’s like buddy! people realize how shitty and fucked up you are! but they want to give you a chance to prove them wrong. we all want you to prove us wrong.
i want to prove myself wrong.
it amazes me how full of themselves people are and yet how dull they continue to be. at least be full of yourself and think that you will be the next plath or rainier!