Genes

“Will you marry me?” He said drowsily.
Yes every time you ask.

He asked if I wanted to adopt or have our own babies. I’ve always contemplated adoption for a number of reasons.

“It’s time to put a dead end to my own genes,” he mumbled.

I’ve never considered that reason. 

Goodnight Jang.

Imperfection

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I enjoy my process. I don’t always enjoy it but right now I do. But I tell the boy, I know that as soon as I’m done, I’m going to hate my work again. I already know which parts of it I don’t like. The eyes don’t draw you in deep enough and hold your gaze. The horns’ details aren’t right. I’ll go on until every single area of my unoriginal sketch is torn apart. I can never meet my expectations of myself. There is no such thing as perfection yet I continually chase it in every aspect. I cannot let go of it with eating. But I’m trying to let go of it in art. I just don’t remember how I once did it.

Motherfucking Trigger

Everything you say makes me angry. It doesn’t matter what tone you use. Just the shake of your head, any short, simple sentence about the most banal things I do or even just your eyebrows… You make me so angry, so angry. I hate talking to you. Thanks for triggering me yet fucking again. I hate home. I hate home. I hate talking to you and I bloody hate this house. I fucking hate this place. You don’t know how long you’ve been my trigger. Tonight I am angry. Anger never ends well; anger ways ends in physical pain. I hate you. I hate you. Why do you keep doing this?? I hate you so much I hate you.

I Miss My Bed

I sleep in it almost every day but oddly, I feel like I haven’t in a long while. I haven’t simply slept and enjoyed the sheets, the pillow under my cheek and the plump cushion to my right in the moments before my mind stops working. There were too many tough nights — sleep was either for me to run away, or it was something to be deprived of and avoided. I haven’t spent my daylight in it either since I’ve been spending them at the boy’s.

Tonight I am tired. My insomnia has improved so much over the last week. Tonight, I’m also as close to emotionally stable as I can get. The ache in my chest is faint though palpable but my body and mind are in sync enough for it to strike me that, ahh I miss my bed.  Goodnight world, I hope I slip away easy, past the gates of slumber.

10 Bags

of senna tea.

I hope the abuse will help. 

Make me light, make me weightless. 

I am probably going to develop and addiction. Besides the boxes of senna teas, I bought a cheap stash of senna pills and I struggled to stop myself from getting Dulcolax. There’s already lactulose and Fybrogel — safer options — that my Mum buys and I think I’m going to use these more regularly. I don’t know anymore.

I seem to act rashly. No, I have always been rash. Impulsive is probably what the psychiatrist would use. I wanted to buy all the lax I could and swallow a few of each kind. I stopped myself this time. I went home and I fixed a number in my head. My head said, five, and I steep five bags. Is this enough? Another round then, and I drink another five. 

Know what, I’m scared it’s not enough to work. Maybe some senna pills too. I should have gotten some Dulcolax. They would probably be a guarantee.

It’s only because I have a lax tolerance. It’s justifiable. Pardon my inexperience but 10 bags plus a two pills is nothing, right? After all, I stopped at only an extra two. I should sleep now or I’ll probably take eight more.

I Hate Money

I hate money. We’ve always been tight on money. I don’t want to be rich and I don’t want to be right on cash. I want enough to live comfortably, but lacking enough to have to save and work and wait for something special I really want or absolutely need. 

We can’t spend money. So we don’t buy drinks outside. 

There was no peace from Daddy’s Mummy because we had not enough money for her. She hates me (right?) I know it. Lying hypocrite. I (think I) hate her.

Daddy spends a lot on your tuition. We could renovate the house two times over and get the windows fixed before they fall off and we get fined. Guilt. 

Daddy doesn’t sleep because he needs to earn money for your tuition. I must work harder for daddy, I’m sorry. 
Mummy always buys clothes but only for me. I want to spend on her when I grow up. 

My parents work hard for me. I want to be rich enough so they can go on holidays to any country when they’re older. I hope they never die. I need to pamper my daddy and mummy. I need to buy my daddy a dog and all kinds of shoes. 

I want to buy my daddy a new bed. 
I have a scholarship. You study for yourself, don’t kid me. No daddy, I learn because I love. I study only for you. 

Mummy has to quit her job in August. I still don’t want recovery. We have no money for therapy (that I don’t want) forever. Mummy’s voice breaks.

I deserve nothing. I want to be small again — be a child.

I don’t want to go to the boy’s. I want to get lost.

If I jump from here maybe I’ll hit my head hard enough to die. It’s not high enough. But I like to think that I may die.

I wonder what will happen if one day I’m too lost in the mind and I die. I wonder about the lost, wondering minds of the people I leave behind.

I will probably still go to the boy regardless, like clockwork and habit. Some part of me that is still me loves him too much, misses him dearly and wants him right now.