Heres a 2 in one ig. First half will be a self-indulgent angst abt love and the other half will deal with heavy topics. Just things that I deal each day. Things that run through my mind. So be prepared to stop reading or continue if they dont bother you.
1st: not very many warnings. Just vivid language that should be used as visuals.
2nd: thoughts of suicide, near attempt, selfharm and thoughts of it, body image issues, gender identify issues, internalized homophobia (possibly transphobia), failed attempts at using coping mechanisms,
Lance wondered if he was capable of being loved. Capable of loving. His brain melted in disgusting gelatinous puddle. Pouring from his ears, his nose, his mouth.
Heart beating slowly and then pacing up. Stomach being cut by razor sharp butterfly wings batting at his insides. Baseball bats hitting his knees, crumbling to the floor.
He always wondered what it was like to not be used. Wondered what if felt like to be truly loved by someone. Too afraid to ask, his brain rots and his insides twist and knot.
Butterflies frantic to get out, carnivorous and sharp. Heart flipping and speeding its rate.
What exactly did it feel like? Certainly it couldn't feel like this! He felt like he was dying. He felt as if his stomach was going to fall out and his heart was going to beat through his chest.
He was in love, but there was nothing returned. He was disgusting, his body was gross. Skinny, eyes dull now. He wasn't needed, but who cared.
He was in love and although it was hard, he wanted that feeling forever. The feeling of butterflies, the feeling of his heart racing. Who cares about returned feelings.
The feeling of finally being in love was enough.
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2.
Keith felt like giving up. Going to school each day was so hard. Waking up and seeing his body was so hard. Dealing with being called that name was so difficult.
He was so tired. Not just wanting to sleep, he was tired of living. Tired of treading through each day like muddy, murky water. Tired of treading with cement blocks chained to his ankles.
He didn't have access to any razors, his foster parents locking them up before they go to sleep. He did have access to bobby pins though. Getting that protective part off was hard though.
After he does, he begins scraping it against his already scarred and scabbed wrist. Skin tearing and bleeding. Beading down his arm, decorating it in that ruby color.
The only reason they took away the blades was because he continuously cut. He'd sit in the shower for hours and cut away. They only found out because they found one taped under the sink.
Once he stood in the shower, blade stuck against his throat. Nearly doing it, he sets it down. Swallowing harshly.
If he did that he wouldn't get to go on T or get top surgery. If he killed himself he'd be forever know as that. Thats not he wanted.
His skin was so weird to live in. He wanted out, he wanted out so badly. Even if it meant cutting and clawing his skin away, he'd do it. He couldn't stand all this everyday.
He wanted to leave. Wanted to leave and never come back. He couldn't remember the way it felt to be comfortable. He wanted to be normal.
He wishes he weren't gay. He wished he was a straight cis male. He wished he had never been born. He wanted out.
He never asked to be like this. He didnt want to be discriminated against by his whole family. Hated by everyone and despised.
He wished he could stop being like this. Just be a female, keep liking men. Who cares about his happiness? He just wanted to be loved by his family.
He tried his coping mechanisms, drawing, music, breathing. He envisions a candle. Breathing in, it flickers toward him, breathing out, it flickers but doesn't go out.
It didnt work, clearly. Blood seeping through his bandages the next day. He needed more. Who cared?
Day and night cutting away. Day and night watching himself bleed out. He wanted reasons on why he should stop. Even then he wouldn't.
None of it mattered. He didn't matter. He didn't care.
Dying seemed like the viable option. Downing pills, downing liquor. Numb as he cuts more. Slipping in and out consciousness.
Who cared if his body was wrong at his funeral. At least he'd be dead and wouldn't have worry. Death is better than life.
He had written a note. To his friends, his foster family didnt matter. Besides his brother.
Takashi,
I'm so sorry it had to end like this.
You always used my correct pronouns. You always said Keith. You always told me how masculine I looked. You always told me how amazing and smart I was.
Thank you, I love you.
You're my brother and you always will be.
Lance,
Sorry for this.
I loved you, truly. It was so difficult writing this. Youre my soulmate, my beautiful, amazing, boyfriend. You should move on. You should just forget i ever existed. You're beautiful, selfless, funny, quirky in a good way, my best friend.
Thank you so much, I love you. I always will. Please dont give up.
Pidge,
Hey cryptid buddy.
This was very hard to write.
So very hard.
Youve always been there for me and you're my very best friend since junior high.
You always see through my bullshit, but I cannot deal.
I cannot deal anymore. Thank your for calling me Keith.
Thank you so much, Pidge.
I love you.
Keith remembers all the good memories as he fades. Crying, but he couldn't feel it. He takes his last breaths. Head hitting his desk.
Who cares.
Everyone.
Everyone cared.
But that didnt matter. He was gone. This is what he wanted. It was always what he wanted.
Oh god.
I cried.
Okay, uhh....
I'm not doing good at all ahah,,,
I should tell someone. But I wont. So here I am ranting.
Feelings are weird. I hate my body. I hate everything about it. The only thing on my mind is cutting and dying. Dropping out of school. Taking some stress out of my life. I'm so tired of being me. Why can't I be normal? Why can't I actually be okay? I'm getting therapy but I feel so much worse. I feel so much worse and I can't do anything about it. I want to die so badly. I want to stop existing. I want to sleep.
I want to wake up and not dread the day. I want to wake up and feel comfortable with my body. I want to feel like this is my body. Why is it so hard? Why is it so hard to live? Why.?
