The word to me sounds light and airy, and slightly pleasant.

Crying subtly in Starbucks while listening to the song I last posted had me contemplating my life and how I’m stuck at mediums. Minor, temporary pleasures keep my days going. What happens when they’re gone?

Am I going to rely on throwing money away to keep myself alive?
Am I going to hide all the pain in my face with this mask and run towards childish pleasures and false hopes I can’t bring myself to believe in?

For how long?

I contemplated it, and the world went gray.
This project is due, but it doesn’t matter.
They’re calling me back to work, but it doesn’t matter.
That boy seems to like me and want to abuse me but it doesn’t matter.
That show I like is coming on tonight but it just doesn’t matter.

Every person I watched had their story, but none of them had my story.

I saw joy in their eyes from clique-ish behavior, initiative with their backs burdened with books. I saw people who genuinely enjoyed life and it made me feel even more alone.

I must alienate some of my friends when I try to grab hold of my life. I lash out on males and show nothing but disgust towards them, even my closest friends. I don’t trust any of them to not be selfish pigs like they were bred to be, they’ve never shown me any different.

I also get tired of ranting, get tired of hearing people trying halfheartedly to “cheer me up,” get tired of people just not taking the time to try to understand and hear me out before they shove cliche phrases about life down my throat. I suppose people these days don’t like to go beyond “how are you’s” and “i’m fine’s.”

My eyes,
my nose,
my lips,
my brows,
my lashes,
my skin, my face.

This is what Post Traumatic Stress Disorder looks like.