I'm done feeling
2003-05-27 || 2:25 p.m.

The desire to kill myself is getting so strong. I'm not sure for how much longer I can resist it.

I am numb inside. I don't think I can wait much longer. Waiting for nothing is too hard.

I've just had a bath. My bathroom smells. It is rotting. The ceiling is falling in. Everyday there is more of the ceiling in the bath, up the mirror, around the taps. I'm tired of living in squalor.

I've failed everyone. My depression destroys everything. It's so insiduous. It creeps in and makes me think its reality. But it's as much a part of me as my arms or my legs. It is my reality.

And there are things about me that are good.

What I want more than anything is a man who would kiss my cuts and scars. Who would love them almost. Who would hold me close and love the blackness just as much as a smile. Who would understand that the blackness holds so much of me and so much of me is good. The darkness is not bad.

And of course I'm probably just terribly sexually frustrated. I fantasize a lot about a tongue in my mouth or in my ear, of the smell and feel of a man.

I'm tired of this brain, in this head, on this body, in this house.

Tired of it all.