1.

I can lay down my mind here, can I? I know nobody will mind, I’m in my own corner, 
my own safe place to…write. You know this big, monstrous moments when you feel this 
alien anger, sadness, anxiety, frustration, confusion, sickness and pain building up 
inside you out of nowhere are , eventually, going to pass, soon those feelings are 
going to go away, and you’ll be your own empty shell again. It’s odd, hu? How those
moments make you question whether that’s who you are, or the one you are when you are 
happy, active, participating in conversations, laughing, eating…or the one you are when 
you are empty, blank, and scared. Wondering who you are, wondering what you’re supposed 
to feel and when, because sometimes you’re tired of being tired, of being angry, of being 
empty, and you don’t even know why you feel this way, why sometimes is so easy to slip on 
a mask and pretend you’re someone else.  

2.

I'm suffocating. There’s no room to breathe, no room to move. I am drowning…wondering how 
I always end up feeling this way. Today my mask cracked. I’m sorry if you got a taste of 
the real me, so bitter, angry and cold. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t promise 
it won’t happen again, but I promise I’ll try my best to tie down my limbs and tape over 
my mouth every day, nothing good comes out of what lies within me being free. Today was 
just another numbing day.

3.

I’m breathing, I’m walking, I’m talking, I’m thinking…but I’m not living. This shallow echo of the
outside on my chest makes me tremble…the resonance of your voice is deafening inside my
empty frame. How am I still alive? Someone deserves my time, someone deserves my
happy moments, I can’t take care of them, the rest are pure shadows that cling desperately 
to the little light I have. I can’t feel better, I can try and pretend, but I feel the sole of your shoes
on my back, my cheek hurts as it scrapes the ground I’m so tired to walk on. 
Do you feel better when you try to make me feel small? Doesn't matter, you’ve never achieve 
it, it is the sole fact that you tried what makes me bitter and disgusted every day. I can 
feel the burn of failure on my hands and brain, I tried to think and do, but I’m too hollow, 
too incomplete to move. Sabotaging myself apparently tastes sweet, so sweet it’s hard to let 
the habit go, besides, I’m really good at it. It makes you happy? Yes, I can see it on the 
satisfied curve of your discrete smirk. Don’t worry, I’m feeding off you too. I wonder how 
things are going to be when this reaches an end…I don’t think it’ll be pretty, probably dusty 
and dark, bloody trails on the floor left behind. I face the mirror and laugh, what a joke I make
out of myself. Such a joke, I feel water running down my cheeks, a cruel gasp as my laugh 
vibrates against the emptiness of my chest.

4.

Can you blame the dead for having no motivation? 
Can you blame the living for having to feel dead so they can fall asleep?

5.

Even though it made the earth move and the sky bleed, his face was pure, his hands were 
clean. Innocence and corruption molded into one, but he was free, and she was glad. It was 
their turn to shoulder the pain, to carry the blame, and to swallow the hate. 
They were one.

6.

Are you having fun playing with this broken doll house? Who are you kidding? You’re both 
miserable. I can see it in the stretched cracks of your smile, the unsatisfied, bottomless 
expression of your eyes. I can see the chunks of you that fell away when you had to drop 
your life and start anew. You’re both incomplete, so what are we playing at? You will never 
be happy, you will never be satisfied, and I will be here, with the same scenes and words 
on my shoulders, watching it all unfold, break and be glued together time and time again, 
watching you as you repeat the same insult, the same terrible grimace, the same empty 
apology, the same old pretense, all in a sad, unchangeable cycle, praying it doesn’t get 
worse, but who am I kidding? It always does. I’m covered in scars my nails and all of yours 
carved into my skin. Even when it all seems to be complete, I’m not fooled, and I can taste 
the bitterness of both your regrets, your guilt, your sadness, your hate, your longing for 
freedom long gone at the back of my throat, numbing me, filling me beyond the depths of my 
brain with poison, but I can take it. I’m a blank canvas. I’m no one. I see my reflection and 
ask this stranger’s body for forgiveness, forgiveness for all the pain I’ve put it through, for
all the pain they’ve thrown at it, for all it will endure. I see these hands, touch this face
and bite this lips in desperation, how can I get out of here? Why am I trapped here?
I’m so much more than this bones, flesh and blood…I don’t understand why I am this 
being, or why I am here. I don’t recognize the image in the mirror replicating the robotic 
movements of this body’s limbs. I’m no one, I’m a stranger in my own skin, no wonder I’ve 
always been a stranger in your lives. I pronounce the name you’ve given me, rolling it on 
my tongue like fire, not understanding its sound, no meaning and no mind to its weight, so 
it’s not mine. I have nothing to identify me. I’m no one. There are no features behind this 
mask. I will always be no one.

7.

And the mask slips again. I’ll keep saying: sorry, sorry, sorry…over and over in my head, but it won’t change a thing. You fear what you see, you alienate the truth beneath the pretense, how sad you don’t notice the weight of my laughter, the stiffness of my smile and the dullness in my eyes, I always thought my agony was even more obvious when I was pretending, colors contrasting against my dead skin and pieces of me falling all around you. I guess I was wrong. If the mask slips it all becomes real, but you won’t accept this reality, I must be pretending, this must be a thing of today, and today only…if you could only understand I pretend for everybody’s sake…if you could understand that I try to be okay by pretending to be okay…but it never works, and I get tired, and the mask slips off. You’re confused, you deny the truth before your eyes and move on, waiting for my darkness to shift, it is, after all, only a day of bad mood, it’ll pass, it always does, doesn’t it? Like that annoying stain on your shirt, fixable, temporary…unlike the  unnerving beating of my heart, tormenting me every day with its sound. There’s only one way to make it stop, but I won’t notice when it happens…and I won’t be satisfied. I am restless, useless, hopeless. I am unarmed and alone. No, there’s not much to say today, I’m just in a bad mood.

8.

I got so good at pretending I’m okay, at writing to people like I’m so full of hope, of energy and bright thoughts, at smiling so as to not make anybody feel awkward, at smiling to dismiss an insult, at smiling as if I wasn’t horrified at the way people acted towards me, at laughing when people treat me like a burden, at laughing when I’m the joke, at looking away when I’m being mocked and belittled…I bottle it all up because it’s got nothing to do with the beings that do this to me, it’s just a few people out of that bunch whose faces I can really see…so, no, it’s not the fact that they act like monsters and I learned to ignore it…it’s the fact that I got so good at pretending to be someone I’m not for the sake of others that kills me. When fantasizing about dying isn’t enough, I explode into a million pieces, and the faces that aren’t distorted by indifference get to feel my anger, my outrage, my disgust…they don’t get to see the despair, the sadness, the numbness that surrounds it all, and it’s a shame, they’ll never understand, and it’s not fair, they don’t deserve to know that part of me, they deserve the best rehearsed smile, the most natural laughter, warmth instead of cold leaking from my words. No one can see behind this mask, I have to make sure of it…if they do, I might just die that very moment. No one will ever truly know me, if they did, they would probably want to die and take me with them.

9.

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. My chest feels blocked, I’m crying and I can’t see. I feel 
so empty, I don’t even know why I’m crying…why I feel this way. I thought growing up would be 
the time when this would change, but it hasn’t…it’s only gotten worse. If things were blurry 
before, now I can only see the silhouettes, the only colors left are self-hatred, self-sabotage 
and emptiness. I can’t stop feeling this way. It tires me to think that this is how it’s always 
going to be…a lifetime of feeling worthless, hopeless, and guilty for no reason. I can’t sleep. 
I can’t feel. It’s like I’m on automatic, the day got filtered through a veil of numbness and I 
lost half of it. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

10.

Another day of nothingness, is getting harder to pretend to feel anything. That sounds nice: nothing…let me feel nothing, because when I think I’m completely numb, only the rotten feelings come crawling all over my body, like deadly, living creatures feeding off me. What to say? Who do I say it to? It doesn’t matter (I never speak of it), I always end up questioning myself, as if I was my own enemy: maybe you’re just too far in your head…it’s only chemical, it’s only chemical, stop overreacting, it’s all chemical. I want to make it better, I want to make it right, laughable, I know, you can’t fix, or cure anything with no money in your pocket and hate on your back, eyes full of denial. Denial, denial, denial…such a sweet song, laced with their addiction to lost freedom, self-hatred and my pretenses. Sweet dreams, wish I could sleep forever, then again, I mostly share my sleep with my nightmares…funny, I always have the option to close my eyes and wake up…I always know that I’m dreaming…but I wait until the last minute, when I’ve already suffered the most…like I’m trying to prove myself something, that I can take it. I can take it all, whether it comes from me, from the ones I love, or the faceless people around me. I’m truly a disgusting character. I hate myself. What a joke, I still loathe clichés.

11.

Self-sabotage, the child of self-hatred and chronic depression, is a cruel thing, you know 
exactly what you have to do to succeed, to survive in the life that you lead, and yet, you 
do the exact opposite, completely and utterly aware that what you want to achieve is at arms 
reach…but you let yourself fall, fall, fall, and it leaves you with the most disgusting feeling 
in the world: failure. Guilt. Because in the end, it was definitely your fault.

12.

I want to be the hero, let my skin get ripped off, let it bleed, harden, let me be the
hero. Let me pretend this didn't happen, I've seen too much, I've felt too much, the
chemicals in my body have burned a hole through my stomach, have exercised my heart
muscles, have almost ripped my ribs out, let me be the hero. My fingertips reach and
grab onto childish dreams, they were taken away so cruelly, pieces of skin stuck to their
back, I'm alright, I'm alright, losing myself has always been part of this chaos, let me 
be the hero. Open your eyes, you'll see me standing while trapped in this body, there's
no room to move, no space to think, the danger of my thoughts is a living thing, it
breathes fire, it changes me, let me be the hero. When you look at me you see someone
incomplete, someone to pity and to feed off their tragedy, but I say pack your bags, take
your sympathy, I'll let loneliness cure hypocrisy, your bitterness only stains what was
left of me, I will be the hero.

13.

If only I could see you in black and white, how much easier would it be.
I would see you choking on your happiness, flames pouring out of your mouth,
not space to be happy for others, but I see you grey, grey, grey...the charred
meat around your mouth heals and you look normal from time to time, I ignore
and you pretend...there's nothing more to it. My destiny has been erased from
the map, I'm a lost soul clinging to a nameless destination with a journey that 
feeds off every bad thought, every salty tear and every grind of my teeth -- I have 
always known I will never get what I want, nor what I need, but what someone 
like me deserves. I have known it since I can remember, I will never see my
dreams come to be, they have always been too good for me. Me, me, me, me, me,
what a senseless notion, I have always known there is nowhere I can be complete,
not a place to breathe, to let my aching muscles heal -- all the things they 
contain, every day I expect to never wake up again. Me, me, me, me, me, get over
yourself, you failure, you worthless being, purple hands and green legs are my
war paint, and I have to learn to breathe fire, to heal the burning insides of
my mind, to destroy and never look back. My destiny was erased from the map,
and around chaos and pain I will write it again, not caring where it leads me.
Me, me, me, me, me -- I was never important, just a stupid vessel for the outside
madness, never knowing how to measure and know failure, only dreams...and those
are part of a fantasy. How I wish I could see you in black and white, but you and the 
thorns around your envious, greedy hands look so red in blood, and your sweet, sweet 
words put innocent minds in a grey sleep.

14.

Even my sighs hurt. I failed her again, that little child who worked so hard, who grew up 
too fast, who knew what she wanted from day one. I failed her again, like I always…will 
always do. The worst part is, I have to face her every day in the mirror, in the reflection
I avoid so desperately. I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it tomorrow, the disappointment 
and disgust in her eyes could kill me this time, in ways no one else is capable of.