Suicidal

Sinking in beneath this skin and screaming to get out. My mind is a never ending reel of outtakes from the most horrific, most dramatic moments of every X-Files episode, warped into some sort of subconscious stasis, static-y and resplendent in its own silent, virulent way. I’ve been in these moments before, and I’ll be in these moments again. Sinking. I feel like my knees are knocking somewhere down below my ankles as my face goes sliding down past my stomach and I reach up, clawing to be brought up back into my own body. I fail. 

I would like to re-edit all my thoughts into something that I can make sense of, instead of sitting here and sifting through all these intermittent moments of stabbing pain and tepid joy. I wish there were some sort of worthwhile story to tell here, but all that’s coming out the other end is a ceaseless stream of shit and shit and shit. I thought that I was supposed to post happy pictures of myself smiling on Facebook. But I’m not. 

I have an unlimited lifetime supply of self pity, and I’m running through it all at a rapid pace. It never stops hailing down on me, in every situation, and I am tense with self loathing. Low self esteem. Lack of self confidence. Everything that is involved in the consciousness of the self, which also includes sitting in my room and taking selfies that I show no one. 

I wish I had more money. Maybe that would fix this problem of mine.