I am a moron.

Bam.

Damien.

I don’t know why I can’t say anything I really mean without being incredibly mean, I mean to say I do not know how to disagree and guess it shows because I either hide or kill and don’t like no’s or yes-es or opinions that differ from mine, and prone to silence or telling lies, and so I have been resigned all my life to sit and stew and not dare ever talk to any of you, because I fear my biting tongue, and ever present lack of resistance, utter insistence on being right and love of the act of fight. I am a jerk, a pain, a whiner a crier, a lover of war, of pain and fire. I am mean and I am ruthless, but my arguments you see are not with you, I do not hate anything you do.

They are with me, and what I lack, and my constant desire for attack and death smack. I do not know what to say, so usually I just go away, sit alone and drink or use, and my soul I sear with cold abuse, I am trying but I suck at this, I do not want to do this, and I miss things I never had because I live in fear and I can’t stop because I can’t drink beer or shoot up drugs, and it is not solved with getting hugs or sitting peacefully on rugs or talking to people you say will help me, they do not know the hell it is to be me

I am just simply without words, and I mean it when I tell you it really hurts living alone because you can’t do life, living in constant strife and being tempted to cut with knife, the very fabrics of your fragile life.

I am trying but I can’t right now seem to see what makes you so happy and so free, I am stuck to sit and to think that maybe if I cannot think of anything else, at least I know, I am trying, hope it shows.

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