Nothing has been going 'right' for me lately - actually, for about two years now. I feel more drained than I did yesterday, or the day before that. I often feel as though I'm trapped in a glass cage watching the world from a safe distance, vicariously feeding off the endeavors of those who conquer the madness within themselves, and/or Hathian. I never know if I want to overcome my demons or make friends with them. The glass cage, in a way, keeps me safe from what could potentially hurt me, but it also keeps me ignorant to the happiness or relief I could be feeling. I used to think being numb made me invincible, but it's only turned me into a coward and my wounds still exist ... most of them are just self inflicted. I want to reach past the cage but every time I do I just draw back my hand, and the serrated glass creates more agony. This town is animalistic. I close in and it coils back to strike. And so it strikes, again and again, and again.

I wish I could tell the people that hate me that I do, in fact, understand them. I've seen it myself plenty of times. Their disgust reflects back at me and cuts like rays of light through my soul. It resonates through my skin, my organs, off every wall of my cage. These people put holes in me that will never again be properly filled. So I fill them with poison. I'm angry that I ever let anyone inside my box. Such beautiful things I have seen walk in and out. But I can never leave. I even learned to like the misery that I create in here. It's not as simple as calling myself a masochist. I became these things. I am to blame for everything I've done. I filter everything through the holes of poison in my glass walls. Do you get it now? How loud do I have to scream, and whose bones do I have to break to make people understand what I am? I've been told time and time again ... kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. No one will miss you. And everyone will stand outside your box of self-inflicted pain. They will watch you die, and no one but the people you've once let in will ever be able to reach through those toxic holes to pull you out.

And trust me.

No one wants to pull me out.

I sat by my laptop in my empty room this morning searching for a horoscope to post to twitter that could explain how I feel. It's finding nothing that makes me finally assume that maybe even the stars in the night sky aren't even real. Maybe my entire perception of the world is wrong. I could use a new outlook. A new perspective of things. I'm still chasing the ghost of the very first high I felt the first time I did cocaine. And I showed up at the police department, naked, screaming about a love that never even existed. Love is so far away from me, it's in the stars. That's how unreal it is. The people I love right now are very real, but I don't deserve them. Because that first high I got will always be what I look for in others. I'll never find it. I'll never catch his ghost. I don't want to, because he was so right about me. And he's happier with someone else. I wasn't abandoned, but I was betrayed. And even in death, I won’t be forgetting any of that.

Now I realize I've written too much about just how little of a person I am. My black hole of memories now lies in a manila folder on my lawyer's desk and I still want to get my hands on it. It's a fucking anthology. A novel of my criminality that all started with the clatter of porcelain on concrete. The gradual snapping of cords and wickedness of a dial tone has persistently haunted my dreams. Every time a dispatcher touches that disgusting, vomit-green machine, I'll be twitching in my grave. Even my charred remains will know what's happening.