You Can Change The Scenery, But Not The Fucking Situation

Have you ever confused a dream with life? Or stolen something when you have the money to buy it? Have you ever been blue? Or thought that your train was moving while you were sitting still? Maybe I am just crazy. Maybe it is the present way of living? Or maybe I was just the interrupted girl walking next to you in the street.

Don't be jealous because someone else got better...because they recovered quicker...because they have a chance at a life. Don't be jealous because it is not real; it is an illusion. They didn't recover or get better, they just gave up. Just as everyone else gave up on them. And what they are living is not called life. They can change the scenery, but not the fucking situation - and it is not them who make the house calls. Everybody knows that. What they don't know...is the it's you who dials the number. And how the fuck are they supposed to recover if they don't even understand their disease?

I know what it is like to want to die. I know how much it hurts to smile. How you try to fit in but you can't. How you hurt yourself on the outside to try to kill the thing on the inside. And when you don't want to feel, death can seem like a dream. But seeing death - really seeing it...right in front of you - makes dreaming about it seem fucking ridiculous.

There is too many buttons in the world to be pushed. There's too many buttons and they are just begging to be pressed. And it makes me wonder, it really makes me fucking wonder. Why doesn't anyone ever press my buttons? Is it because I am neglected? Why doesn't anyone reach in and rip out the truth and tell that I'm a fucking bitch? Or that everyone wish I were dead? Is it because I am already dead?

Will anyone actually care if I drop dead? If I am already dead? If my heart is cold, as cold as ice? Is that why I keep coming back to this place? This black fucking hole? Do I really need this place to feel alive? It is fucking crazy!

Someone once told me to never point you finger at crazy people. Yet I point my finger at myself. And just four days ago, I chased a bottle of aspirin, with a bottle of vodka. Just because I had a headache. I didn't try to kill myself. I was trying to make this shit stop.

Maybe the reason I am still alive is because razors are too painful and rivers are just so damp. Acid stains you ad drugs cause cramps. Guns are unlawful and gas smells too fucking awful. So I might as well live.

Borderline Personality Disorder. An instability of self-image, relationships and mood; uncertain about goals, impulsive in activities that are self-damaging. Whatever the fuck it means: it's me.

And so I sit here, asking "was I ever crazy?" Maybe. Or maybe life is crazy. Crazy isn't being broken or swallowing a dark secret. It's you or me amplified. If you ever told a lie and enjoyed it. If you ever wished you could be a child forever. That's not crazy, that's life. Maybe I am not perfect. Maybe they are not perfect, but they are what makes me. They are my friends. Some I will seen, some never again. But there isn't going to be a day that my heart will not find them

Maybe everyone is a liar. And maybe the whole world is stupid, and ignorant. But I'd rather be in it. I rather be living it. I'd rather be fucking in it, than down here in this black hole that I swear never come back to. Never Again.