missmisery444

[missmisery444]

if you think about it the great is just Russian history fanfiction and i love that

#the great hulu #elle fanning #nicholas hoult #fanfiction #russia #russian history #i have a paper in 4 hours why am k still here

[missmisery444]

part i: yesterday

i remember crying inside of my mothers red hatchback when i was six. i was in the passenger seat, holding a balled up, now tattered and wet piece of tissue paper i had picked up from inside the dusty cup holder. the windows were down, the ac was on and the wind was hitting my face ever so slightly that it made my hair stick to my skin which was red and wet and salty with tears. the blaring October wind and the resulting engine noise from the bold 'eighty' on the speedometer were the only sounds i could hear, other than my own sobs and heartbeats and missed breaths. i'd just had the worst day of my life (the first of many to come. i'll always remember this like yesterday because the reason i had cried was the very reason i still cry today). my mother looked at me with an alien expression on her face because i was her good, pleasant, well-mannered child who never questioned authority and was never ever sad. i had cried once before when i had thrown up all over my shirt on the first day of school (it was my favourite shirt). she told me things she thought i wanted to hear (she is the strongest and weakest, kindest and cruelest woman i have ever known and i'm afraid i'm growing up to be just like her) i refused to tell her why i was crying, continually clutching onto the ball of tissue in my hands and wiping my face into my wet hands (my hands get wet whenever i feel something)

second grade was hard when you didn't have friends (i had tried so hard to be liked because i didn't like myself). i'd had yet another day with all of my feelings disregarded (i would grow up to find out that my feelings will always be disregarded) i couldn't figure out what i had done wrong. i had been perfectly inviting, brought up things other girls in my class always talked about ("i want the barbie dream house SO BAD"), i would do whatever i was asked to do and never questioned them. i don't know what they wanted (six year olds are evil).

but it was kind of complicated. it wasn't that i didn't have friends. i had friends. the kind that would sit with you in the cafeteria. the kinds that would invite you to their birthday party and save you a seat in the auditorium. but i was never the friend they talked about all day. never the friend that was picked first in a group project. never the friend that was invited to all the sleepovers. never that friend they voluntarily called and hung out with.

i grew up feeding on that feeling. i hated feeling unimportant but yet it gave me comfort. i was unfamiliar to the idea of unconditional love and i craved it so much i would drain every drop of blood in my body in exchange for one look of love where i was the first choice; but i ran away every time i was glanced at with even the littlest of feeling.

i am a paradox. i want to be happy but all i do is think of things that make me sad. i have the most vivid dreams and ambitions, but i can't find myself doing anything to achieve them. i don't like myself but i also don't hate myself. i crave attention but i reject it when it comes my way. i am a conflicted contradiction and i wish i was anyone but myself.

part ii: today

i am the most devastated woman in the corner of the classroom. i have friends and they promise they love me but i still find myself asking them if they lie to me because they pity me and the terrible place inside my mind. i suppose i am still the happy child my parents have known. i suppose i cry more often now (it's not like they know that). i suppose i watch that one scene in lady bird and destroy my insides every time ("i wish that you liked me.""of course i love you""but do you like me"). i think i am tired of being the second choice but yet not exhausted so i will bear with this feeling for a little longer. i suppose i laugh more too now; its probably because i've become used to the pain of loneliness now. i feel incomplete without the pain. pain is inherent and it is a part of my body as much are my hands and my head. pain is my friend and it sits by the window sill as it admires my pathetic face every time i wake up and prepare myself to have the same day that i've had for the past four years.

#bad poetry #poetry #mommy issues #i dont know what i'm doing #i have a math paper tomorrow

[missmisery444]

miss del rey, you are a work of art

[missmisery444]

― Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart

[missmisery444]

HOW ARE YOU NOT TERRIFIED OF THE PASSING OF TIME?

[missmisery444]

Who is the real subject of most love poems? Not the beloved. It is the hole. When I desire you, a part of me is gone: my want of you partakes of me. So reasons the lover at the edge of eros. The presence of want awakens in him nostalgia for wholeness. His thoughts turn toward questions of personal identity: he must recover and reincorporate what is gone if he is to be a complete person. […] Most people find something disturbingly lucid and true in Aristophanes’ image of lovers as people cut in half. All desire is for a part of oneself gone missing, or so it feels to the person in love.

Anne Carson, Eros the Bittersweet: An Essay.

[missmisery444]

but mom these tears moisturise my face

[missmisery444]

my mitochondria clearly aren’t working because this bitch has NO FUCKING ENERGY

[missmisery444]

i am, as the poets say, losing my grip on sanity