b.m.

why am I like this, man

how did i become this thing

I'm sorry

some people have alt accounts for their weird niche smut interests

I have those too but I also have a secret alt where I'm really, really mean to myself in a sort of perverse, performative self harm ritual

anytime anyone is ever kind to me I feel as if I've tricked them into feeling sympathy

stupid fucking asshole

lrt why even bother

alright unless something prevents me from doing so I think I will stream rain world tomorrow

I don't know how to live at all

I don't want to die but I don't know how to live

I don't want to die but I don't know how to live

I don't want to die but I don't know how to live

how do I even have friends. what do I offer anyone. what does someone get out of knowing me that isn't better found elsewhere. for all my effort to become someone worth knowing, i sure as fuck keep faceplanting in the same fucking way every time the opportunity presents itself

all I'm capable of doing is flailing and whining

even writing any of this disgusts me

how much joy can I really bring anyone, as I am and have been? what does anyone really get out of knowing me? what kind of potential does something have when the only thing it's ever been perceived as doing is burning itself down over and over and over and over and over and over and over and

I'm not a bad person I don't think, but I'm not a good person. I'm barely a person at all. I would need something going for me besides an inability to do anything about my own situation.
is it really a situation if it's been my entire life? can a person like me become more than a parasite? doubtful

the only guarantee I've ever offered is disappointment. misplaced encouragement. frustration and exasperation. maladjusted prioritization. aimlessness and self loathing. I'm so fucking dramatic about how much I hate myself I could write a whole ass screenplay

"you're such a good person" you truly don't know me that well, hypothetical friend. if you did, you'd know when to cut your losses on a lost cause

I need to be more than this. I need to be that which I have dreamt of becoming. I should be magnificent and beautiful and bring joy into the lives of those who bring joy into my own. I should be able to return some of the love and comfort I have been given by others.

I am such a worthless burden

I just don't get it

I know I am loved by a great many people, some of whom I've never met in person and do not know by name. I have so much love in my heart and it hurts so much to be like this and I don't know how to change. I will always disappoint everyone who puts even a tiny bit of energy into my well being

I burn so bright, but extinguish too soon. I wallow in ash before I flare back up on vastly insufficient fuel. I am constantly in a cycle of self immolation and not understanding how to break free. I feel like I'm going to die like this and it will always have ended that way. I feel cursed

I always end up being too much for everyone. I'm too much for myself

I don't know why I'm like this. I have such a primal fear of true vulnerability. as if anyone who claims to love me could look into my head and see what's actually there would be repulsed by it and leave me like everyone else has

I think it would be best if I never knew whether anyone ever found it, and certainly better if I could stop myself from looking at who it was if anyone ever actually finds it. the best way to guarantee that I stop using a public vent journal is for me to find out who's looking at my thoughts

wondering which would be worse for us: the possibility that someone would ever look closely enough to find this account and bear witness to my unfiltered depressive bullshit, or the possibility of no-one ever finding it

deeply tired of feeling like this

this year's been miserable dude

it's horrifying and terrifying and overwhelming and demoralizing and it feels like a type of dying I've never experienced. I don't understand what's wrong with me. what am I even good for if I'm not able to create

I don't remember how to make things like I used to. I just don't. I've been running up against the same walls over and over again and I always always always fall back into uncertainty and disgust at the product of my hands. like I've lost some part of my voice that fell apart somewhere along the way