Love, me.

This is what I want to tell you, and this may disgust you a lot because of the fact that I am disgusting.

I know you won't read this, ever. So I can say just what I want and not being worried about your reaction. Do you remember when you couldn't touch me because I felt a little amount of pain when you did that? Well, I think I just figured out why I felt that way. It was the pain of the fear, because I was scared of caring about you and then suddenly one day you would disappear and I would just stay there, standing and waiting for you like a dog. In case I never told you how was this pain, I'll describe it: it was like a pain on my neck I can't actually describe, and a pain on the place you touched, like a pain that came from somewhere under my skin. I don't know if I can still feel that pain of fear because it's been a while since the last time you touched my skin. Right now it's not a physical pain but a deep and tiring psychological torture whenever I think about you. I'd love to say "thank you"  but it's not your fault at all because of being born, it's my fault because of being such a stupid disgusting whore. I hate myself for it. And I am sorry. This is dumb but I am not sure about why you're angry, but, whatever is the reason you have to hate me, I am sorry. I'm sorry about being annoying and overreacting. I'm sorry about sending you a pointless letter that I hope you burn. I'm sorry about doing all those things and I did them just because I felt lonely and because I have no self-love so I thought it was a good idea to do self-destructive things. Now I cut, I think it's a better way to hurt myself. If you want me to shut up, tell me and I will. The whole point of this letter is very simple, two things: I am sorry and I care about you, I do. So you told me you're trying to be happy and that's why I want to die so I could just disappear and stop fucking up everything. I'm scared, I'm really scared. I'm sorry.

I... don't know what to say about this

He always leaves without saying goodbye
I have to pee and my nipples are hard
I'm on it, I'll swallow
I'm sick and so shallow
this is revenge and it's fair
take off my shirt in the night
with the light of stars
smoke, smoke, boobs, boobs
nipples, alcohol & love

Mi habitación es aburrida, vacía y excesivamente iluminada. Estoy pensando en tomar un rotulador negro y simplemente llenar de rayas las paredes, como hacen los niños pequeños con crayones. Aún no sé qué dibujar, quiero dibujar ojos en algún lugar pero verlos en la noche va a ser como estar en el infierno. Ojalá que nada pase.
Voy a ir a la boda de mi prima mañana, tengo que usar un vestido. Por suerte, el vestido no es muy corto. Me preocupaba que se vieran los cortes en mis piernas, los que están por encima de la rodilla. Apenas los cubre, creo que podrían verse si no presto atención a los movimientos que hago.
Quiero brazos delgados.
No quiero vivir y eso es prácticamente lo único que me hace sonreír.
No me gusta nada.
Perdón.

¿Por qué relacioné el sexo con "este es un buen vecindario, es bueno para los niños"?
Me duele, me duele mucho que no puedo ser suficiente. ¿Por qué no puedo ser suficiente? Me parece muy injusto. Últimamente lloro mucho por eso y me parece estúpido: ¿Por qué no soy suficientemente delgada? ¿Por qué no soy suficientemente bonita? ¿Por qué no soy suficientemente encantadora? Le quiero, mucho. No me gustan mis propios sentimientos, les tengo miedo porque no soy suficientemente buena y es por eso que siento que todos van a dejarme. No quiero ser un libro, quiero abrazarle.
Amo su voz, sus ojos y la forma en que me habla. Pero no soy suficientemente buena. Si no fuera porque me ha dicho que no lo haga, me mataría. No tengo mucho, no tengo prácticamente nada. Abrázame, por favor. Necesito algo de cariño o puedo arrastrarme bajo mi cama a llorar.

Yo le quiero, yo soy real, yo estoy aquí. ¿Por qué todo tiene que ser una puta mierda? Sí, entiendo que no soy lo suficientemente buena pero poca gente lo es. Y esa gente probablemente ni va a mirarte porque para ellos no eres lo suficiente. Pero para mí sí. Te quiero, ¿por qué es tan difícil ver eso? Ya, soy una puta, doy asco y me odio, estoy demente y enferma además de insoportable pero puedo callarme y golpearme para ser suficientemente agradable. Puedo dejar de comer por tres días para poder ser adorable. Puedo arrancarme cabello por cabello de todo el cuerpo para darte pena. Puedo ser una puta psicópata y encerrarnos en una puta celda por 15 días, sin agua y sin comida, hasta que finalmente delires imaginando que me quieres.

And if you live through this with me I swear that I will die for you.

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.

I hate you so much, it makes me sick.

I have menstrual cramps, I can't fucking write on this shit so I will say what I have to say later. I am not dead, not yet. If I stop writing, it's because I killed myself (to be honest I don't think I can kill myself without writing something about it in here), someone killed me or I died.

Last night I had this weird dream with my bird Polly. According to my dream, I put him in a small cage like 1 month ago and I forgot he was there. So I found the cage and I thought I was going to find his corpse but I opened the cage and it was filled with salt,and Polly was there, sleeping, alive. He woke up and came to me, and I felt so happy. He was ok so everything was fine. I still miss him a lot, although he was a bird I love him so much. I don't think that it's hard for me to love people, except when they hurt me enough to make me sick.

Utero soup

I feel lonely. So lonely. I don't know why, I just feel alone. I feel like I can't be loved, like I won't be loved, because I am not enough and I can't, I just can't do anything.
So today I was late for school, when I got there it was late. So in my religious school we have this shit that every morning, before class we have 15 minutes of some religious talk. Anyway, I went to the bathroom before going to the class so the teacher could yell at me and I knew that if I was late one more time I would be suspended. When I went there, I found a girl of my class. She's nice, and cute, and she's just a sweetheart. She's always late, and now I know that when she's late (i.e. everyday) she hides in the bathroom until she knows a lot of people will be walking around the hallway so she doesn't looks like she's late. Anyway, we were there with like 6 girls and we were all late. I couldn't stop looking at her. I am sorry but she's just too pretty and lovely. She's all I want to be; she's all I wish I could love. Finally, when we heard the bell we ran out of the bathroom, she gave her backpack to her sister and went back to the bathroom when she saw that there was a teacher asking everyone if they were late. I don't really know why she didn't came with me. I was walking in the middle of the crowd and I just went to my classroom when the teacher wasn't looking at me.  It was easy. But another teacher who was there asked if I was always late and that I had to stop that. I survived. She came to the class later.

She's pretty, charming and I am not 

I have weird eyelashes and my friends are whores. 

I hate one of my friends, she's always trying to act like everything: she wants so be charming, badass, cool and hot but I think the way she acts to include all those things makes her look pathetic.
I am not your friend, not even your ugly friend. I can't talk to you and, in case you are not as dumb as you look like, you can't talk to me either. You're empty, just empty.
Maybe is her lack of brain what makes her skinny.

I AM NOT ENOUGH, WHY?

I want flowers, pink, hearts, unicorns and that kind of shit everywhere. I am so loveless right now that I am desperate about anything related with being lovely. I am not lovely, I can't be lovely, I hate myself for even trying subconsciously. I am jealous, I wish I wasn't this dumb, stupid, asshole, I HATE MYSELF, I HATE MYSELF. I am so angry because I'm not pretty enough, God's cruel and it's not fair that I can't be pretty, why can't I be pretty? FUCK YOU, GOD. I'm sorry, that's not nice. I am not nice, we're not nice,  should die, I just should die. Totally. Should. Die. 

Basically, I've developed depression, anxiety and a bunch of stress all over the years. I've developed a self-destructive behavior and emotional dependence, self-harm and that kind of shit. I haven't kill myself yet only because I have a few reasons to be alive, and also because I am afraid. I am afraid of what comes next. I was sure I will go nowhere, I would be sure about my decision. Oh God, my scars hurt a lot, my stomach hurts with the scars, I'm alone and I have to pee. I. Wish. You. Were. Here. 

I don't want to hurt you, I love you. I don't want to kill you with this hammer, I love you. If you gonna cut yourself, remember that no one actually cares. 

Oh great, my mom wants me to go out with her. My legs hurt, a lot and also my stomach hurts because of the cuts and I just need to leave but me andhilt`g ytp,6v8 fuck I just don't feel great.

I am not a fucking emo. There's a difference between being an emo and cutting. Emos are just people that do what they do because they think it's cool, because of their friends or because of something unrelated with depression.
I do this because I feel empty, bored, sad, with too many emotions at the same time and also I feel like this gives me a sense of control. I feel like there is something I can control in my life and that is something priceless. Almost.
I am not sure about what to do right now. I feel like I want more and more. I am just afraid that someone notices it because it's too much. The blade of the sharpener is a blessing from God.

John Lemon.

She feels dizzy and sleepy when she cuts. And there's blood and scars everywhere. It's easy, of course, without rules because there is nothing to hide. She's a child, a lost child, a lonely child, a loveless child. She can't understand what is wrong and what is right yet, she's inside the uterus of an alcoholic girl who was raped by her boyfriend. She hears noises from outside: cars, dogs, rain, people and screams. She can smell the blood around her and she can hear the beat of her mom's heart. She hears the blood running through her veins inside her body. Back and forth, back and forth. When she closes her eyes, is like they're inside her head looking at her brain. Sometimes it seems endless, or like she's having a heart attack. Mommy says "don't cut yourself". Mommy calls her a whore. Mommy asks and mommy steals. Mommy drinks sherry when she's awake and smokes when she's sleeping. Mommy is drawing. Mommy is taking pills. Mom, mother, daughter, sister, wife, girlfriend, rape victim, used to write "riots not diets". And Samantha knows that happened in order to avoid the suffering.
Samantha is sucking my vitality. She's taking away my codeine. Will you sing my hallelujahs? Oh fuck, where the fuck ? What's going on?

The scars hurt. It was bleeding a lot last night but today's scars aren't bleeding that much, or maybe they don't bleed anymore because I wasn't touching them. Anyway, they hurt. Is is normal that when I cut my legs my stomach suddenly starts to hurt?
Last night he was inside my dreams. We were walking in a mall and I was like kind hugging him but he didn't cared. My parents were there, I don't know why. Anyway, when we were about to leave, he said something like that I was sweet or nice because I had great parents. And I said something like "you're the sweetest person in the world" while hugging him. He was wearing a shirt and a jacket, maybe too because I remember I felt that when I was hugging him. I do miss him. And I do feel it's my fault that no one actually cares about me. Like my best friend, I wish he cared about me. I don't know, he says he cares but "I just don't show my emotions". Yesterday I was apologizing a lot. I was saying "sorry" every 5 minutes to my best friend because I showed him my scars, because I took the blade of a sharpener and stuff.
I'm not feeling great right now, I never feel great at all. And I'm not sad.
I gonna take a shower, I want to smell like strawberries. It's funny because I have a lot of thing that smell like strawberries but I am not so in love with strawberries. I like them but I rather roses or lavenders. Or grapes, grapes smell good.
"FINE. I am a fucking emo. Now that we got over this, can we move on? Please, shut up because I love you".

RIOT GRRRL: INCEST, ABORTION, TEENAGE SEX, SLUT, FEMINIST, VAGINAS

Aunque rompí la regla de no cortarme en la escuela, lo hice. Él fue hoy. No me saludó entonces yo lo saludé. Le pregunté si me odiaba y dijo "no", aunque estaba enojado. Probablemente no me odia, sólo no  me quiere, no le agrada que esté con él, le molesta que esté con él, está enojado y decepcionado de mi comportamiento estúpido. Entiendo, es posible. Luego le dije que me estoy cortando y sólo dijo "ok". Me sentí mal, obviamente no le importaba. Me sentí tan mal que quería llorar y vomitar (cuando lo vi quise vomitar, no sé por qué, simplemente me sentí mal). Entré a clase pero le dije a mi mejor amigo que si alguien preguntaba, yo estaba en la enfermería, pero que iba a ir a cortarme. Me escondí en el baño con una cuchilla y me corté la pierna hasta que la sangre manchó mi uniforme. Me sentí bien, me sentí mejor. Fui a clase, que era afuera, entonces él seguía ahí. Quería hablar con él pero como me considero molesta, estúpida y tímida me senté sin decir nada. Más tarde lo encontré solo y quise hablarle, entonces sólo me le acerqué y le mostré las cicatrices y la sangre en mi pierna, preguntó por qué y dije que era porque me sentí mal porque a él no le importaba o porque estaba triste, no recuerdo. Dijo que si estaba triste debería escuchar música y preguntó por qué él me importaba tanto. "(Si no me importaras) sería como si no me importara mi mejor amigo". La psicóloga quería hablar conmigo y llegó de la nada entonces no hablé más con él. Tras una hora de charla de cómo está la situación en mi casa sobre mis síntomas de anorexia (está sobrevaluado), lo encontré a la hora de salir. Iba con alguien y él dijo "hola". Yo dije "hola" y me fui. Pero después, cuando iba a irme yo me despedí y él se despidió.
Ya, sueno como una niña de catorce años. ¿Qué se supone que soy, entonces?
Soy tan estúpida e imbécil. Me odio, me odio, me odio, me odio.



Was she asking for it? Was she asking nice? Did she was asking for it? Did she asked you twice