Sunday, June 6


I'm here again. At 3 am. Listening to the steady breathing of the inhabitants of sugargrove.

I should be exhausted. I should have collapsed hours ago. Instead, I'm writing. Yawing. Writing. Craving sleep. Not sleeping.

So fucking weird...


It's like I'm waiting for something to happen. Like I'm waiting for someone to burst through my door and tell me to stop bullshitting. Who are you trying to fool, kid?

So I just let the smoke linger in my dying asthmatic lungs. It feels so good. Waiting.

...


I can't really do it anymore. Any of it. It takes too much energy to be your daughter, your sister, your friend. Participating takes so much fucking energy. Keeping up appearances. Exhausting.


I need a break. I need a break from everyone. Everyone expecting something from me, expecting me to act a certain way, react a certain way. Gnawing at my fleshy bits. Get the most out of me, ey? Fucking bastards.


You don't know me.

I don't want you to know me.



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