(no subject)

I wrote this on the bus on the way home from New York. It's not a poem or a story, and it probably won't make much sense to you. But I liked the way it turned out - I described exactly how I was feeling, and that felt really good because it's been a while since I've been able to do that.

I should have known. It was too good to be true after all. Now I know why I've felt so weird the last couple of days - I hadn't felt lonely. But now the fuzzy feel-good filter through which I saw the world is lifted and I am myself again. Bitter, and fighting tears. Why am I so stupid? It never fails. Never, ever, ever, ever. I'm so numb - I chew my gum but I feel like I'm tasting blood. I write, but my wrists feel like they're bleeding. How many times do I have to go through this? And why? Why is it that every time I think everything will work out? It never does. My wings of hope lift me up, and just when I think I can fly without fear, they're ripped from my back in the most excruciating way possible. And every time I hit the ground running. Shielding my face with my arms, and sobbing in pain, but running just the same. Damned if I'm going to lie on the ground and bleed, even if it's all I want to do.