it's just (still) one of those times.

i feel like i've been turned inside out. or perhaps the rest of the world
has; whichever it is, i just don't fit -- within myself, in the world. my
skin feels all off, it doesn't belong to me. except i think that's maybe
all that there is, nothing inside, just layer after layer of skin.

and the thoughts, flickerign through my mind -- they go on and off, they
switch, just as they might lose power -- no matter what kind of agony i can
put myself through, physically, no matter how much that hurts, this hurts
more.

and time stops, each day is a century . . .

i have no clue why i'm writing. i'd really like to just sleep, but i can't,
not well. though i hide my nightmares well . . . i don't think anyone has
ever remarked on them, seeing me asleep.

there are a lot of people, living inside me. voices, some, just voices from
the past, and them (how i long to capitalise that word), and the baby that
might have been, and the dread, the dread the horror a living entity.

but all those people, all those voices, and there's no room left for me, no
room and i think i'm not around anymore.

broken, you know. broken into bits and pieces, shattered, and there's just
not enough left to rebuild, killed again and again, and there are no more
birthdays to go around.

and still, there is no reason, i do not have a good enough reason, do i
need a reason, because sometimes i don't even have this to fall back on,
just falling in general.

colours are slowly draining out of the world and i do not see them at all
anymore, drowning in the dirty sea, coloured like misery.