Your demons never leave you.

I think anorexia has claimed me victim once more. I need this control. I need to destroy myself. I have nothing.

Other Romantic Tales

Hearing about people's romantic dates painfully reminds me of how I don't see much - or any actually- of them. I just have to pretend I care and smile.
"Aww I'm so happy for you. That's so cute!"

"I wanna be adored..."

Breaking Point

I've hit breaking point and I want to smash through these barriers and into a new world where I will be loved and appreciated; where I can play piano at any volume; where I can get him without fear of anyone being there; where I don't cry; where I don't regularly think of suicide; where I don't hate everything I am; where stress doesn't exist; where I'm happy.

This is getting too much for just one, fragile girl.

Isolated from 7 billion.

I am lonely.

The desire to have one person just let me rest against their chest or put my head on their lap whilst they tickle my neck is becoming too much to ignore.

I'm very alone in this world.

Breaking hearts.

I'm considering the notion of becoming a heartbreaker. I want to be one of those girls that boys want to love and lust for even after I've destroyed them. I want to be desired and make them feel the pain I feel when my heart breaks.

Love Doesn't Exist

I allow myself to steal a moment of pretending he's beside me in my bed. Just lying there, not moving, but staring blindly into the darkness and trying to pinpoint the bare skin of my back. I imagine the warmth, his arms and his smell that I remember inhaling unintentionally when he hugged me once. And then I fade back into reality and try to sleep without him in my mind, in my thoughts and in my words.

"Up until now I had sworn to myself that I'm content with loneliness."

Stopping.

I told him I don't trust him or believe any of the sweet things he says to me. He told me to stop and to believe him. I told I would never stop.

I miss everything I used to be.

An alluring concoction.

I listen to the Memoirs of a Geisha soundtrack and carefully pick out the peculiar twang of the shamisen strings, the oriental twist on the haunting violins and the heart-thumping drums for my music class assignment. But what we are not asked to do is picture the story behind the music. But yet I find it second nature to envision the beautiful geisha plucking the shamisen she has tirelessly worked on. Stolen from her home at a young, tender age and forced to work her way up to the top. Her alluring mask painted thick over her soft face and her bright red mouth kept nonchalant and calm as she entertains her guests.
And I can't help but envy the girl I've created in my head. She's not real but she's more than I'll ever. To have her guests fix their eyes on her and focus all their attention on my geisha girl is something I long for. They do not love her, but only want her company Nd beauty. She is more beautiful than any statue in any Italian museum.

My imagination can get the better of me.

Scarred.

I have lost the hope I used to cling to. As I sit in the bathroom, my only place where I am calm and undisturbed, I look ahead of me at the shower tiles. The tears have stopped now but peeling off my glasses I see the evidence of my heartache. I am cold and numb. And for the first time in my life I wish I had never been born. Call me melodramatic but all I am is tired. All I want to do is sleep without him on my mind: prospects of us being together, holding each other close. Burned to a cinder. I am ripped. I am damaged and I need someone to carry me over this obstacle. I could grow a pair and move on but I can't face the next hurdle alone.

He'll never through, the bastard. They never do.