I stare blankly at the depressing, pristine, white ceiling as I will myself to breathe.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

It’s getting harder to do. There’s plenty of will, yes, there just isn’t enough capability apparently.

I regret eating that hospital bagel. My stomach reels from it as–

Fuck this narration; bent over the toilet seeing the pieces of what was supposed to be brunch.

How stupid it is to literally be dying from a broken heart.


There are plenty of songs about heartbreak

and those are usually from the point of view of the one who’s heart was broken

what I didn’t realise was that, until recently

the heart-breaker could be anyone

and this time it was me

and there are no songs to say what I want to say


I’ve been listening to Ed Sheeran for more than three weeks now and it’s driving me mad.

And when I’m not listening to it it’s everywhere anyway.

I’m sick of it yet I still listen to that particular song.

I hate how it’s so relatable.

You know what’s also relatable?


I have that too. I have it like how that f****** song is stuck in my head except with this there isn’t so much good in it rather than bad.

Sometimes I find a sort of beauty to it, injecting substances into my thigh. I pretend that I’m some sort of a d–

Interlude- The Big Bad Wolf

This time I don’t mind so much being the bad guy

I mean you feel good right?

Being the victim

Everyone sympathises with you

Why wouldn’t you love being that?

Why wouldn’t you love being told

That I’m not worthy of you

That you deserve better

That you can do better than me

Why wouldn’t you like

that you can feel

so much better

because they say

that you are better than me

you deserve better

What a fucking load of shit.

I’m glad you feel good

that people like you

because they hate me

at least that’s something good that I’ve done

you deserve better

and so do i

so thanks for all the memories

shitty and otherwise

I’m so sick of this fucking crap

I’m done

–eranged addict. That I depend on illegal substances to keep the will to live, or at least, the will to keep doing the same thing over and over again, which is to stab shit inside and dream the hours away. It’s rather fun imagining it; something you learn from being an only child. You learn to distract yourself; amuse yourself. Keep yourself from becoming batshit crazy by letting yourself be crazy but somehow controlling it.

I’m blabbing again.

But you know, at least it’s just diabetes. I’ll die eventually but at least somehow I’ll still be able to live a bit longer

At least I’m not dying of a broken heart.


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