i am tired, and sad, and cold. and the headache pierces right into my bones, and i know it’s all relative, but when did i start to feel this alone?

sipping cold coffee, stuck at home. and i don’t want to live like this, but… i don’t really have a choice about it.

and i just want love. just want all your attention. because i want you to hold me. want you to rock me to sleep in your soft, lovely arms and wipe the tears off my eyes. let my heart dribble off your shoulders, and onto the floor. i don’t want to carry the weight of this all on my own anymore.

and my fingers ache from typing. and my eyes feel like they’re fucking dying, and i just want you to go. whatever. leave me alone.

and watch, as i work myself, right down to skin and bone. 

Before I start to write about this, I just want to preface it with the fact that, well,  I do this because I love it, and because it’s what I’m passionate about, and it makes me happy, even though it is definitely hard sometimes. However,  there is also… another element of it. A darker side of this, I guess. Because sometimes it’s not about making myself happy and pursuing my creative goals or whatever. It’s just about proving–to myself, to my parents, to the world, I guess–that I’m not weak. I’m not a little kid (whatever that means). I’m a big girl now, and I’m just as smart as the adults. And no one can push me around anymore. A kind of weird defence mechanism, I guess.