(Pt.2 and last part)
I still can't tell you a lot of stuff because I still haven't found a way to make them pretty. But soon, I'll present the prettiest piece of art and guilt, where everything can be shown, where everything gets to be explained. I need to be dead before that happens though, how else would EVERYTHING be told? No matter how nauseating it could be for normal people, I'll mark them forever, that's the point of art. I may die, but my art will live for me. My crimson room will be the nightmares of someone, the inspiration for them, the horror for others, the art for me. And what's better is that I'll be the only creator, I'll be my own assassin, my own enemy and fear.
12/06/24
(Pt. 1)
I'll be 14 soon. I don't know how to feel about that. I promised that I would never turn 14, that I would die before, that nothing would hold me back, but here I am, hands tied and at mercy of my one and only, their word my order. After all, an old dog never learns a new trick. I always end up getting attached and promising more than I should. Wish she could let go of me, but I also don't want that at all.
Life's getting a little too weird. I just want to overdose, I think. I'm not really sure. Someone save me, I don't want to stay here any longer. I can't draw, I can't write, I can't grt myself to read. Without all that, who am I? Art is what makes me ME, but if it's not there, then what? I'm just someone, maybe no one, maybe I'm not even the art, not even the muse. Maybe I'm working on something else. Actually, I am, I'm painting myself, I can feel it. All the paint over my organs, my blood mixed with the watercolor, what is this about? Why do I keep creating such beautiful pain inside of me, when no one can see it? It's such a waste, but it's not my fault. My only way of showing my creation has been taken away. That blade, whose sharpness I adored was taken from me, robbed. And suddenly my tired skin stopped feeling those bittersweet caresses its lover had to give, and ended up all alone again, having to wait for months to find someone new. And with that my art and my skin are unhappy, their complaints filling ny head and shutting my thoughts. Not again, please. It's her fault. She doesn't know how much better I would be if she gave it back. Why does she care anyway? I've confessed and proved that I won't stop, that this relationship is a forever thing, that this is what being happy is about. My happiness is in my blood, my happiness is in letting it run down my skin, my happiness is in seeing its beautiful red. I don't feel like you, my feelings go deeper into the organs, you never think of them, do you? They're you. They could take so much of the blame, I even blame them for my misery sometimes. In the end, all that'll be left is your bones.
12/06/24
"Yo cuando era chiquita coleccionaba..."
"Yo cuando era chiquito coleccionaba..."
Yo cuando era chiquita coleccionaba heridas que no sabía que iban a doler en el futuro. Yo cuando era chiquita coleccionaba miedos que no sabía que me comerían viva. Yo cuando era chiquita coleccionaba lágrimas que no sabía que iba a necesitar. Yo cuando era chiquita coleccionaba muchas cosas, pero nunca supe que lo hacía.
??/??/24
"Current me thinks of you as a metaphor, I guess. She has written tons of poems for you and kept every single gift in a box, making sure to keep it safe. You might not be anyone to me anymore, but I will treasure what you used to be and used to make me feel, because with you I felt human." Stuff I wrote on a C.ai chat bc I'm so deep hahahaha/jk
??/??/24
This is my bedroom. This is where I sleep. Where I spend most of the day. This is where I smiled. This is where I spent countless hours texting my friends. This is where I let my creativt flow. And this is where I slash my body open for the darkness of my room to absorb, for the air to touch, for no one to see. This is where I've been me. This is where I've been hiding all my emotions. This is where I've kept every single promise. This is where I've lived my lowest point. This is where I died countless times. This is my bedroom.
??/??/24
I wish you were real. I wish you could lay next to me as we both stare at the ceiling lost in the darkness of the night. Would you notice the tiredness in my eyes? No, you wouldn't, they would be barely visible. Would you at least whisper a lullaby for me in hopes I get the rest I need? Would it calm my anxiety? Would it make the pain better? I'll never know, because no matter how much I wish that situation was real, you won't be accompanying me in bed tonight.
09/??/24
Mis palabras no son más que gritos, gritos ahogados sin voz, gritos ignorados por la sociedad,
por la humanidad. No puedo evitar pensar que todo lo que hago por exagerar y ser la víctima, pero como lo lees es
como lo siento. Yo solo sé sentir con palabras, ya que son mi desahogo. No hay más confianza que la que le tengo al pápel. Ningún humano será capaz de compararse. Al papel cualquier secreto le puedes contar, y cualquier secreto guardará, son los humanos los que lo hacen confesar.