Title: This one won’t stay on my draft.
A Man Called Otto pierces right through the pain like a sharp object. The urge to leave because you’re so angry at the world and the whole ass mess within; myself. The sparks were there, right in the eyes of naive little-me, and I really just cannot remember when the last time that tingle feeling of being genuinely alive dancing far within my stomach.
“I’m tired.” The only words I can spit to describe this hatred towards the whole idea of me existing. I wish I can, not only saying it to you, but giving you a picture of how much I don’t wanna be here —nor anywhere. And it frustrates me how much of attention-seeking it looks like, saying that you’re so close to jumping off to the after-life. So I write, desperately, on the spaces my people won’t find.
The scenes where Otto not ordering main dish so that Sonya can have everything she wants. That is exactly how I have been pathetically living this life for as long as I can remember. Simply because I’m a sucker for love; intimate, friendship, family, you name it. This homeless soul always hopelessly try to be a home. Yet this confuse feet of mine keeps bumping into people who don’t want me for good, perfectly fueling the poisoned thoughts of “I don’t want me for good as well”.
It’s sad that I used to be seconds away from cutting my veins, a click away from buying sodium nitrite, meters away from crushing my car to highway on night-drives, not resisting while being abused, or simply starve myself for a pain.
“I’m having it hard right now. I’m tired. I’m genuinely scared”.
It’s short sentences like these on my notes, and whole-ass long paragraphs like this on my blog drafts that keep me sane. Writing it down the feelings I can never, ever, verbally say to therapist, to my lover, to my best friends, to my mom and Etta. I like having my secrets with me, the tiny yet vital details I don’t tell people about my story. The scenes I entrusted God to be folded forever in my non-existent seamless pocket.
I said I wanted to die before my 25th birthday. Funny that I’m still crying from a cold and un-healed cuts on my finger. What a brave thoughts for such a tiny gut, isn’t it?
