and what's so romantic about me? nothing, i assure you. just a stick-thin-sick-girl, typing with wet nail polish and smeared eyeliner (but not mascara, never mascara) and hiding in bones, bones, bones. goosebumps are rising as i write this and you should know i nearly broke down in tears today, in the middle of high school advanced placement english, because suddenly i couldn't remember. writing an essay, and i couldn't remember where to put the letters to form the words, despite the fact that i've been churning out these formulaic papers since seventh grade. (because that's how you get called smart; you learn to play the system.)

anyway, though, this isn't about how fucked-up education is these days, it's about me (because i'm a selfish bitch) and today, the tears that threatened to spill over hollow cheekbones and bitten lips. (i read somewhere that it's a sign of anxiety disorders - chewing your lips and the skin around your fingernails. or maybe i'm just looking for attention)

but i didn't cry. i laid my head down on my desk for two minutes (counting seconds) and then returned to the same essay every student in that classroom wrote.

so, yeah. i promise. there's nothing romantic about this shit, the depression and anxiety and all the other disorders i live by. so stop making it sound beautiful, or enviable. it's not even poetic. i was going to try and make this poetic, but there's no point, because it isn't. i'm just another crazy teenager on the verge of suicide. and god, i don't even smoke. i don't even drink. (anymore.) i just... starve. binge. purge. cry. sleep. don't sleep. work. laugh. lie. smile. starve some more. count. ignore my homework. make friends. lose friends. and forget.

i forget everything. i forget everything. what the fuck am i doing to myself?