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"If you could go back to the happiest point in your life, would you?", right when those words were leaving her lips I knew what this was going to turn into. How do you lie to someone? Easy, you lie to them like you lie to your self. It's easier that way. No connection. No emotions. This person isn't a person, it's you. So I told her that when I was 5 I had the best birthday ever. On that day I had so many friends, so much family, so much to look forward to; even up to those last minutes leading up to my five year old face being smashed into a cake by my dad. I knew it was going to happen. It happened every year before that. I didn't mind. The world was mine that day. I still remember everything that happened on that day, what toys I got, the colors of the mess that I left on the ground from the gifts I had gotten. Littering? I couldn't even say that word. I didn't care. I needed to see what was inside those bright-well-wrapped gifts that seemed to take hours to open to me, to everyone else it was seconds. Smiles were being displayed, amazed by the speed of my hands as they ripped the tape, the ribbon, the paper, the packaging. Cards were last, always last. I remember this birthday specifically because I remember getting a lot of money. I thought it was 200, it was probably 50. I couldn't even count to 200. Regardless, it was gone before I could even buy anything with it. It had disappeared. That was the last birthday I cared to remember. That was the last time my entire family was together. That was the last time anyone seemed to care. That's it. That was the happiest point in my life. Innocence, still had it. Solid foundation, seemed intact. Sanity, check. "Then what happened?" cue you ruining some ones day. It's something I'm used to now. My life story. Total assault on all senses. You can smell the desperation in my breath. You can taste the disappointment in the air. It's a never ending story. Where can you hide it all? Somewhere in the back of my mind, it's all in there. Subconsciously, I have left over resentment from the past. "Maybe you need to talk to someone." Heard that before. Why should I? Why don't they just talk to me? Paranoia sinks in and you're wondering if this person hates you yet. You really don't care though. It's not enough to even worry about. So you keep going. Little do you know, you'll be spending the up coming months with this person. Seeing them every day. Smelling their morning breath. Hair grease in your face as you two tell each other your thoughts that morning. What you dreamt about; those feelings still resonating inside. Deciding what you're going to eat. What you're going to wear. When you're going to shower. It's not enough. Nothing's ever enough. You ask your self if this is what you really want. Phase 2: doubt. It will kill you. It's gone on long enough. And now you're just waiting for the crash. Why not pull the plug now? Fuck bracing your self. I want it to die now. Is this normal? You're not normal. Don't ask yourself. Ask someone else. You won't take your own advice. That's something to say about you. Self improvement: a harsh critique on your social skills, or lack thereof. It's miniscule compared to all the other problems in your head. You're still bitter about that money you lost when you were 5. Innocence, you never knew how fucked the world was going to be when you had it in your hands. How did you turn into this?

"If I speak, my pain is not lessened, and if I hold back, what has left me? But now he has exhausted me; thou hast laid waste all my company. And thou has shriveled me up, it has become a witness; and my leanness rises up against me, it testifies to my face. His anger has torn me and hunted me down, he has gnashed at me with His teeth; my adversary glares at me. They have gaped at me with their mouth, they have slapped my on the cheek with contempt; They have massed themselves against me. God hands me over to ruffians, and tosses me into the hands of the wicked. I was at ease, but he shattered me, and he grasped me by the neck and shaken me to pieces; he has also set me up as his target. His arrows surround me. Without mercy he splits my kidneys open; he pours out my gall on the ground. He breaks through me with breach after breach; he runs at me like a warrior....my face is flushed from weeping, and my darkness is on my eyelids, although there is no violence in my hands, and my prayer is pure. O earth, do not cover my blood, and let there be no resting place for my cry...my spirit is broken, my days are extinguished, the grave is ready for me."

About the author.

I was born leaving. Every time I look my self in the mirror I ask my self what I should change about the person staring back at me. There's always something. Physically, mentally, anything and everything. I'm judgemental, about everything; not just people who walk by me everyday or that trendy kid sitting on the bench in front of me as I write this, but everything that can be put into a coherent thought. I judge my self as harsh as I judge everyone/thing else. I try and forget that I'm just another rotting sack of flesh with blood pumping through my veins, walking around waiting for my time to go (go where?). I care about less and less every day. Why should I? Each day is a lesson, another nail on the coffin, another day I didn't do what I said I would. Our weakest moments are the ones we realize that nothing is permanent; friends, loved ones, relationships, family, parents. They all end. Maybe that's why I make them end. I reject nature. That's my nature. I'm a diagnosed, chemically imbalanced-ender. I don't let nature run its course. As I lay here on the beach, over looking the pacific, with your head on my back, basking in the sun, while I face away from it (see? Always rejecting nature) I know there's nothing but good thoughts going on in your head. You don't know what I'm thinking. I won't let those thoughts touch you. I promise. You'll never have the displeasure of meeting them and being in their company. Yet, somehow they'll effect you. They'll effect us. I'll give you hints, but I'm "hard to read", if only you knew, if only they knew. People don't think like me. I hope they don't. I'd never want them to think of the things I think of. I find solace in the fact that the rest of the world doesn't think of the things I do. There you go, rubbing my neck and patting my leg, I know what you're thinking. I wish I didn't. My minds too tired to think for two people. Don't take it the wrong way. I'm not depressing, I'm honest. You're not honest, it's depressing.

....

I'm staring in mirrors to try and see what they saw in me. You know that feeling of complete isolation, like no one knows your alive. I feel that all the time. We feel it all the time. I never talk these days because they all know what I'm thinking, I wear it on my face. I never look these days because I know what I'll see. We cut all ties, hoping what we're ending are our anchors that bind us by our feet, when really they're what we need. We cover our faces with what we know. We crawl on the ridden leaves and all the dead dreams that we're supposed to be buried but no one cared to do so. Chemical imbalances keep me balanced. "So it's begun" we say, waiting for another let down and in a minute we realize what we've got our selves into. Everything we begin, we must end. It's just a matter of time before I end up with another regret.

..

It comes in the night...or maybe in the day. I don't know anymore. It's all the same. You know that feeling in the pit of your stomach where you know you might have just made a big mistake? Like buyers remorse but 10 times worse. This time you lost something. You're all ears to anyone lending their open mouths. Waiting to hear what they have to say before you go ahead and run your self into the ground. There's always a good side, right? Wrong. What happens if it happens again? All the same things get said and done and you just go through the cycle again. Maybe you should spend some time alone and collect your thoughts. Sounds un appealing, I've done that too much, I do it too much. It hurts too much. I'd rather not think about it. But like I said, sometimes you ask your self why you do what you. What makes you act like a bug attracted to a bug zapper. There's never anything better. Or maybe there is. I think there is. I see that there is. But is it what I need to be complete? These days what does it take? There's always something wrong with me. There's always something going on. Maybe that's what I need, maybe I always need something to need to feel complete. Instead of just accepting the fact that things aren't that bad. Well they were, in your head. Maybe I need help. Maybe help doesn't care anymore because they've tried, called, and came but I never cared. Who knows. You can't arrest me anymore. You can't accuse me anymore. I won't fail you anymore. I won't fail me anymore. I won't be here anymore. I won't breathe anymore.

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Dear Reader,

I want to warn you of everything before it gets too late. I want to tell you how everything we ever say becomes parrallel to how what feel in the end. And all the words we meant just end up becoming regrets. I wasn't born this way. I was made this way. I want to tell you that just like them, you'll be another regret. I can't help but feel it.
When you're this far from heaven you can't help but feel like you belong to hell.
I'm telling you this post trauma because I didn't want to ruin the moment. I write these words to remind me to tell the next one...fuck it. There won't be a next one. I write these because it's not fair to you to let you go with out an explanation. I was a child turned wolf. I'm no longer wolf. I'm not even a man. I'm a shell stuck inside of a shell, inside of a shell.
When you're this far from heaven, you can't help but want to go to hell.
I'm staring at the sun one more time. This time I hope I go blind. This time I hope I really die. Heaven doesn't want me and hell doesn't need me. I don't need me.

Stoned Dethroned

Consider this a warning.

There are two minds I own. One has the faith of a child who knows not of the world, but of those 4 walls that keep him safe while he dreams, who falls in love with everyone he meets.
Then there is a boy with jaded eyes, who hates the world, who doesn't want to meet anybody else in fear of being let down, who feels confined within those 4 walls that keep him safe, who blames his past for forgetting names, who secretly wants to forget names, who's probably less fucked than he thinks he is, his chemical imbalance tells him otherwise.

I sit in rooms wishing I was outside but really, there's nothing out there for me. I literally feel like I need to be in my room charging my self for the rare occasion that I step that one foot out knowing what I'm leaving behind. I tell my self I'll be back. I know it. But sometimes I don't want to come back. I want to leave with the record player skipping and the lights still on. Ink still in the pen and the hum of the shower pipes still audible from when I just left, as if I just got ready to dissappear. I want nothing more than to be kissed and missed.

Consider this a warning. I'll tell one and I'll tell all. I'm broadcasting my downfall.