I need to breathe, rest, kill myself. I'm drowning. I literally begging for help, while inside of my mind I can be locked in a dirty apartment in Seattle, surrounded by used syringes with traces of heroin and unclear drawings made during trips with DMT. With sticky and dirty hair, with traces of Kool-Aid I didn't wash. In need to isolate myself as much as I need the human warmth, I need to hide in a room with cigarettes, alcohol and incense. Promise me, swear to God that we will buy cigarettes soon, please. Why am I feeling so many things at the same time? Why can't I be pretty? Or what I'm expecting from myself?
Why can't I be Rebecca Brown? Why is there so many clichés to make girls feel pretty if they're so dumb? Why can't I be something that can be loved? Why am I a failure? I just want to know why God decided to make me useless, ugly and stupid. I want to know if I did something wrong in my past life, I want to know if God was expecting to see how much time can a stupid human being tolerate in such a boring condition. I need a hug. I need love. But I won't have that. I am not the kind of person who can be loved. I am just not enough and I am used to that.
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