the nightmare box.

I think about everything too much, and everything hurts.

there is so much pain in remembering how and why you gave up your dreams -you’re weak and stupid and you can’t do anything right no matter how you try; you’re weak and dumb and you were so wrong when you thought your heart beat viciously like a stereo on fire; you’re so weak, stupid girl- and replaying them like a fucked-up mix-tape whenever something hits a rock and goes wrong. Gosh, you’re so weak I can’t even emphasize it enough.

Fourteen and your dream has been stripped bone-dry; bone-weak.
Fourteen and you let your constellations down; you’ve disappointed everyone who’s told you you had so much damn heart -so much heart it could beat for two- and so much damned potential.
Fifteen and disgusting. I disgust myself so much you can’t even begin to comprehend how alien and sick I feel being in my own body, sharing the mind that’s on the brink of falling under.
Sixteen and anonymous.