(Not sure where to put this, so feel free to relocate it where it should be)

Old entries:

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Sicksicksick. Everything inside me. Is. He broke me and reshaped me and forgot to remove the shrapnel. I needed her to survive him: the pain of her existence kept me aware when it was so tantalizing to ghost through that white oblivion and not return. But, I craved to be more someday. That perhaps with each day of weakness, I would provide a day of power until I created a pinnacle to climb and escape all those hands grappling blindly and bustling to dissolve me on the cement far below. Once I made it to my throne of well-deserved hatred, blood, bone and marrow, the world changed. It demanded softness after shaping me into ice and diamond. It recoiled at the blight of my triumph, and even a phoenix and her necromancer could not ward off Atlas. I can still feel the weight of the world slowly crushing me with voices of the damned living screaming.

“You don’t belong here.”

I don’t even want to be loved anymore, I want to be remembered. So I’ll carve my name into the world, until even God cannot erase the scars.

Take the sickness, and I am dead.