i'll keep digging

I'm trying to find a point, some tiny shred of meaning and I can't.



Elaboration. Right. Incapable.

In a way I thought the anxiety was getting better. (It isn't.) I've completely given up on this semester. I keep repeating "Next time, next time, wait until winter..." like that's supposed to mean something, like I'm supposed to keep that close to my heart, like it's supposed to soothe me and make this easier. I'm trying to force "There are more important things in life than being beautiful." down my throat and I keep choking on it.


There are more important things to life than being beautiful. Yes? No.
I feel ridiculous when I try to defy that. There is nothing more important. I've spent too much time squeezing and scratching and tearing and cutting and starving and sweating and hating for that to not be the truth. Sometimes I can wear myself down enough, exhaust myself enough to think I don't care, I don't want anything, anyone, I just want to sleep. But when I've got plenty of calories and huge shuddering disgusting masses of fat, solid and thick under my skin, I've got the energy and the resolve to live absolutely loathing myself for not being beautiful. I can't die yet, there is too much of me.

I made promises, I don't care. If I die right now, when they find me, they'll peel back all the layers and find the heart of me. They'll see. No elegance, no sweetness, no sincerity. Vile tendons and bones, healthy, thick pus-yellow layers of sludge wrapped in ruined flesh, dusted with ash, and so many veins.

I put all this effort into trying to be acceptable. I want people to love me but I hate everyone. I don't want to even start liking myself, because that's when I fuck up everything. There is so much rage inside me and I don't know where to put it. I miss being emotionally catatonic because at least then I found ways to waste time. Kill it. And now I only want to scream and drown.