She feels like she should be in a hospital from all the misery she feels, staring vacant at the ceiling limb-locked in bed, thinking that those plastic dog-tag collars she hated so much belong on her left wrist now, remembers how they felt against her skin. She doesn't care that her hair is caked across her pillow, or that she set her alarm for 3 in the afternoon and right now she's only half an hour early; she doesn't care that her stomach feels sour and heavy and that the taste of last night's cave-in-cave-out is lingering at the back of her mouth, reminding her of how sick she really is.

She doesn't want to put a bra or pants on or go brush her teeth and take a shower, because that'd be too functional for her to function. She wants to wait listless on hard mattresses for doctors to come in and talk to her, ask questions she will answer toneless and blank or suffering and choked. How can she be missing sprawling unsteady words on lined paper denoting how much she loathes herself? She's a deadgone fool and though she knows it she doesn't even stop to try.

Because it'd mean that she wouldn't have to pretend, that she wouldn't have to fight. She's tired enough as it is from weathering days and days on end, wearing stage-worthy smiles and giggles she believed she actually felt because lying to oneself gets easy when it comes in forms of brief hours and wearing masks so often as she has as of late.

Cornfields on cold nights come to mind and she barely checks herself from wishing she was there again, to ask the blond boy for help rather than the one far off in lights, and to be given once more a chance to immerse herself in the sheer hopelessness that would allow her to take her own life. She yearns for the "romance" and desperation of crying behind warehouses and hiding, paranoid, from cars, and wonders now why she told that boy anything when it would have been so much safer to keep him at bay, confide nothing like she had done before. She's learned the hard way that she can't trust strangers because they can scratch her heart to tatters without blinking twice. But she still wants to have asked him to take her away, a notion she knows is deliriously stupid because she was madmadmad at the time, her mind and body writhing from what she had done to herself the night before, and she had never wanted him to see her cry. Yet despite everything she's naive to every single fault anyone could ever think of, from friends to love and back again, and worse, she's torn between flaunting her scars and hiding them because in a way she's proud of those thick lines. But she will admit that they'll be difficult to explain if she doesn't steal them away deep into her flesh (those tracks dig deeper than they think).

She hates how much she covets her former selves. She hungers for piano keys and clinked bottles, wood stacked high to tumble down from her mistaking fingers; she craves lamplights and summers and shared beds dimmed by liquor - both times - and running up and down hills in warmth and snow. She too frequently dreams of being somewhere like those places and times again, ghosts so commonplace and vivid that she sometimes finds herself chasing after them. Only disappointment lies down that road, and it's something she should have kept in mind but keeps forgetting, bringing on gashes more than one at a time until she's reduced to little more than remnants of someone she could have used to be.


A/N: here we go with my propensity for long sentences. And to think that these still aren't as long as some I've cranked out in the past. Please review!