i am filled with shit.
i am a walking form of confusion.
i lead you in and take you home, fuck you, feed you and tell you that you mean something when the whole itme im not even in the drivers seat.
[i am stephanies false sense of love and affection]
i am falling apart gentle readers.
i am taking pills and wishing for sleep.
i am cutting too deep for the warm rush down from my wrist to my fingertips.
im noticing a pattern here.
im tearing at kids on the street.
im a ball of deep loss.
im terribly mistaken for a good soul.
i can be horrible.
i can be fake.
i can hurt you.
i am fat.
[again with the self hatred. fuck]
actually im quite happy with my body.
or at least i think so.
[again with the self doubt]
i fall into list mode without realizing it.
im lost. i cant wrap my head around the fact that i have to shake joey out into the wind. i cant handle being home alone when i know where all the sharp things are. people tell me i hold them together. this sates me to an extent. then i hear her. the voice. you remember her dont you. shes always fucking there. and usually when theres no one else to take my face and rub it in the shit to get me to just fucking stop listening. her little servant. her steady pupil. thats me. fucking naive little me. playing the strong girl outside of the bedroom walls that hold in the rage and red screens behind my eyes. the weary bag laden eyes. my poor eyes. god. forever smiling and forever the mindless idiot.
this has to stop.
something has to be done.
i am in the throes of a spaz attack.
but now abe and duane are here. maybe after the quarter of a xanax i can relax, and stop the fucking insanity.
i have to let them help me.
or theres nothing left tonight.