literature

Hopeless

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heart-terrors's avatar
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Literature Text

I cling to his hand (sometimes with a few fingers, sometimes with both hands) as we browse vegetables and fish in the supermarket, for I am hopelessly attached to his gentle touch. People have always said that my fingers are long and my hands are big for a girl (proving their point by aligning their palms and digits with mine. I usually feel like a giant when this happens). But in his hands they are small, feminine, soft, my thumbs dwarfed, slender.

And I am hopelessly out of control when we cook dinner together, when he looks deep into my eyes as he touches me, kisses me, and oh, God, when he listens, laughs (God, to hear his laugh). In these brief moments I can forget the truth, the way of life I have adopted years ago.

Because, on other occasions I grip my pillow hard, attempt to silence the sobs, shiver in the cold of the dorm room (in the dormitory of a college not meant for me, never meant for me). I feel like I am nothing wanting to be nothing (a word permanent in the tremors of my sleep, in the lifeless words dripping from my lips).

I am truly hopeless in this cage, wings grown limp with disuse, legs crippled by lack of purpose. In my prison I only find ways to hurt myself, it seems, with pasts that will never be futures (but still frighten me) and with the delicacy of love and the tendency it has to cower from suicidal tendencies.

So, I am hopelessly out of control when this paranoia seizes my heart, for I convince myself that I am not lovable, that I should stay sick because it is familiar and awfully convenient (and being alone means I hurt a little less).
yup. because i can't fucking write ANYTHING because this goddamned depression makes your thoughts go everywhere. and i have it so fucking HARD.

fuck.
© 2012 - 2024 heart-terrors
Comments8
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MichaelT0's avatar
i love your imagery...
my parents put me on "happy pills" to make me happy, get it? happy pills?
anyways, i feel for you :C