ulcers

I manage to get by, most of the time. The rest of the time I'm a miserable wreck, and I don't want to ascribe it to the one thing that makes sense. I can't think. I can't talk. I can't write - everything's in little pieces, and I miss you. I still haven't forgiven you. This makes for many conflicted thought processes, and the situations in the house don't help much.

It is awful to have no one to talk to.
I've never had no one to talk to.

People will listen
but I don't want them

I wish I could just cry and get it out of my system, but it won't go. Sits there quiet like a sad lump of clay and them jumps up and bites me when I think I'm over it.
My words are undone and limp
they don't make sense
they're ugly
ugly

when has anything i've written ever been ugly?
this is all your fault