I can’t stop spiralling
I can’t stop trembling
I can’t stop feeling irrelevant
I can’t stop feeling unwanted
I can’t stop thinking I could never be loved
I can’t stop

But I also know that;

I can’t expect people to read my mind or understand the disasters of it
I can’t expect people to comprehend the voices and how loud they get
I can’t expect much at all unless I tell them how I truly feel

Meanwhile, I’ve got to;

I’ve got to stop crying
I’ve got to fight back my demons

I need to stop expecting magical solutions to very real problems
I need to start having honest conversations about real feelings, even if they are painful
I need to stop wondering and start knowing
I need to believe in myself and others

I just wish my heart would stop racing and my mind would stop telling me things I’m not ready to hear. I wish I could pull myself out of the spiral bring me back to solid ground and tell myself it’s only a minor setback and not the end of the world.

People can love you and still not understand every little sensation your mind transpires to your body. It’s hard and painful – but they only understand what they know and they know so little of what your mind conspires against you.

‘But I thought you enjoyed it,’ he said when I ultimately sought him out after a long period of silence following an intense yet impetuous intimate encounter during which he slapped me across the face. Something no man had ever dared to do. He never asked if he could; it was merely a spur-of-the-moment thing. Consent was lost in the wickedness of pleasure. I let it go because I was misled by his embrace and dazzled by his charm.

I must admit that I didn’t hate it at the moment, but I have despised it every day afterwards as a result of his indifference. He’d let me slip away so casually.

Don’t get me wrong, he was plenty sweet in the few hours we spent together. But it was all for nothing; it was a waste of my sentimentality.

Another one of the many men to contribute to the depreciation of my soul value.

I live in continual dread of missing out on wonderful things.

Thank you for your excuses,
Thank you for not loving me.
Thank you for not treating me right,
Thank you for letting me be.
Thank you for the lies, the careless I love you’s.
Thank you for letting me believe that we could be real too.

But finally, thank you for showing me the truth of your ways, that your heart wasn’t in where your hands ran through.

I will find my way away from you, to a home where love holds its meaning, and I hold my value.

So really, thank you for goodbye.

Give them all of you and all they take is your clothes. Bare your soul for them to see and all they see is your skin.

Hungry eyes of young desires.

It’s almost as if I’m reliving my 17-year-old heartbreak – all the same components, all the same earth-shattering powerlessness. Immature and foolish all at the same time. I know in my heart that this isn’t going away anytime soon.

This one left a significant scar – and right now, the only way I can relieve my pain is to keep playing ‘Teardrops On My Guitar’, on full volume just as I did when I was 17.

Another one-sided affair and despite how brief it was, my heart was in it.

Nothing I feel lasts longer than a minute unless its doom.

I keep collapsing twice a minute and no one really understands how that feels. Because it seems ridiculous and excessively dramatic, but that’s exactly how I feel, and I despise it. I can’t help myself, so I’m caught in my endless conflict between loving myself and striving to love myself even more, while resenting myself every minute.

Sometimes you don’t know why something is happening, all you know is it hurts like a motherfucker. And apart from the anguish, everything is crumbling around you, and nothing is in your control.

Sitting here alone carefully soaking my tears in tissues before they flow down my cheek, catching them as soon as they fill up so it doesn’t run down my mascara. Oh what a waste this was.

What’s sadder than a girl sitting in a nice restaurant, alone, at a table for two – hoping the ground would swallow her any minute now because sitting here alone any longer would kill her. It’s the thought of him, of how used she felt. Means to an end – that was all she was to him.

I really wanted to run, but there was nowhere I could go. And if that isn’t the saddest thing in the world, I don’t know what is. Not wanting to be somewhere so badly yet having no place to go to so you sit in agony pinching yourself in the hopes that one of the pinches would be painful enough to distract you from your current misery.