1/3I can't decide between A and B. Mediation was always my approach, but the problems with treading on a line so thin is that it becomes razor sharp like a blade. Every time I walk forward in this direction, it cuts deeper into the soles of my feet; every step I take I start to bleed. Right now, I can't walk forward anymore. The bottom of my feet has become so unbearably cut-up that now I can only crawl on my belly. I can't change direction and as I'm flat on my stomach, it’s only a matter of time before my entrails spill out. All that rotten sinew inside of me will burst like cyst and then painfully blister whatever stays in this shell’s interior. I am, not the same.You ever miss a flight? Doesn't matter if you were there at the right time, the gate was wrong. It wasn't the one you were told to line up at in the terminal. And through no fault of my own, I must pay sorely just to fly again.I really wish I had the opportunity to be a woman, for a man to see me with the same gaze he'd lay with on a woman. It hurts extremely emotionally. I cannot convey my pain with simple arithmetic: it's too long, longer than the sum of all digits used in pi. I tried, I really tried. Move the 'r' some to the right, and now I am tired. I will skulk away into the dark until there is nothing left of myself.I am disturbed. I dreamt, that I was a lost ship until the skin on my body soon shed like hasty fingers peeling back the skin of an orange. Without that taut and zesty hide, my rotten inner fruit is left out to ferment with the salty air then oxidise. I feel like what rust is like to touch with the stroke of an open palm, rough and fragile. Merely extending my reach has its flaky texture cut skin deep with tarnished stains. I'm just another decrepit boat that sits in the docks waiting for deconstruction, it’s taken me this long to realise I have been out of service for a long time.
Its moments like these where I just lie on my side at butt fuck time in the morning holding back my tears and feeling awful in silence as so I don't wake up my neighbours. I’m riced because of a deep-seated amount of self-hatred that continues to hollow me out like a spoon does to a half-litre tub of Neapolitan ice-cream.I'm waking up as a man tomorrow and the day after and the day after and the day after and so on and so forward. Time drank all of me. My hair feels like hay, or dead and dry grass. It's thin like my waning patience and in a depressed state. It's long like the time I have waited for, and the period I have wasted for. I feel sick and tired.In the strangest reach of desolation, I did what is unbecoming of myself. I sat down and drank my woes asunder; I bawled without the petty mediocrity of such unmanly things like "tears" and "emotion". Take me away, my face is sad and slumped. I blame my total lack of bodily autonomy, my anatomy, my lack of integrity: of that I can't make this wry smile something more genuine. I wish otherwise, I wish I was able to provide the Eve half for whole. None can claim to have the heart of a maiden: not myself.Where and who and why I fall. I have a vile tumorous growth that undulates in a very otherworldly way, it’s no heart of mine or of a man nor maiden, it’s a torrential abyss of pain that bears fangs. This creature that resides inside of my flesh prison was something that wanted to be "me", it’s a perversion of which is now a whimper. Who am I? The reflection in the mirror? The skin that is dry like a quarry and hard like granite, the moss that clings to this rock is my body and bread. A rock cracks into smaller pieces of itself, and I break into more splintered shards of what I wanted to be. I can be nothing, nothing. I am nothing if not a woman, and if I am not a woman then I am no one.
I'm feeling a little fragmented. I've just realised time slipped through the gaps between my fingers like sand. My priorities are merely granular in scale in comparison to the weight of larger rocks cobbled aside the shore of my being. What is another day when the tide comes in to deposit more sediment? It shapes my woes into an insurmountable mass others would step upon. A grain by itself is such a small thing, but when it's an accumulation of lots of objects of the same scale, it's infinite. I could just about manage a stony shore of shale and other rocks. Problems used to seem so big, yet despite that I could lob them back into the ocean to be dealt with later. But it's the drift of the longshore variety that spits them back as increasingly smaller grains of sand.I feel like I am trying to dig for some semblance of self when I look in the mirror, I woke up late and I stood in front of the mirror's view to confront my reflection. The churning in my gut refused to believe the image that faced back at me, I am trying to deny reality and my inherent biology. I would be silly to think that I could look at those sad blue pools and say that I am comfortable with what I see, it would be sad to admit that I hate how out of tune my voice is. Trying to do anything with myself requires a quarry amount of excavation to even see if there is any treasure buried beneath all the deep layers of gravel and rasp. Even a mere exhalation is, fatiguing. Breathing in and out feels so unnaturally out of sync, it’s like I am pre-emptively singing in base.
Singing, song and then rhyme and reason, it's all gone. My voice is stolen, and the defective one in its place can't even settle for me. Talking, talking gives me so much anxiety and it’s not because I don't want to engage and be intone without other people’s conversational rhythm: it’s because whatever comes out of my mouth feels dry and broken. Every syllable that irks from these mouth flaps sounds like the screech of tires in a speeding car’s desperate yet harsh break to control themselves, talking is inevitable so I crash. This mangled tone I have is what a multiple vehicle traffic collision would look like personified into a sound, it’s unfortunate and very unpleasant.The arterial sunlight sears my exposed skin like a steak cooked rare. I keep sleeping and dreaming to categorise every micro-epiphany that continues to mold the very clay of my essence. Every night is restless; she is on my mind once or twice during my non-waking hours. Her friendship was transcendent; her soul was empyrean, like a ghastly image of a wraith crying in front of a mirror. Her tears are now my baggage. I miss her so much that I am crying for her. She weeps in a sea of coagulated crimson; all that blood runs thick with the clotted fat of struggles that stopped her metaphorical heart. I am a segmented boat that bobs atop the sea of rust my memory of her has become. The sounds of its tide are a distorted archive of her voice: I try so hard to remember how she sounds. Upon the shore of cobble and grit, I can feel my bare feet submerged within the deep rose tide which tempts me.
"Touch," I hear your name. "Speak," I feel your absence. "Breathe," I wish I could melt into your arms. Sometimes, all that blood becomes a tarry black oil spill: everything voids of emotion. The discomfort I feel is like a stone in the sole of my footwear; trying to walk with the knowledge of what they did is like treading on broken glass perpetually. Her parents buried her with a name that isn't hers. They denied her existence, and now her rotten imprint lingers inside my increasingly dilapidated mind. "Help," you were always a woman to me. Sometimes it's knowing what happened to her that holds me back from coming to the same conclusion with my identity as she did with hers.Every name I could use is just another label. Nothing feels unique to me; sometimes I want to take her name for my own. Then I realise how silly that would be. If the label I used was the same as she once had, it would be viewed as either creepy or sincere. I never "loved" her, but it was something like that in a platonic way. Maybe I could be a "…," just so I can hold on to a piece of her.
I am cursed, your bones and joints ache, you have half the energy you used to possess... you still like the same immature humour you had in high school. You deprive yourself of your hobbies and things you enjoy just because you want to meld into the perceived illusion of being a 'normal' adult, and even if you didn't, you don't have time for them or people. Your skin is a mash of being aged yet slightly youthful but also drier. Everything makes you feel depressed and being that 'depressed' is being 'fine' in everyone's eyes because nobody really talks openly about feelings and stuff.Everything slips between your fingers like the increasingly eroded sediment, time changes you to a very granular amount of joy. It feels like life is peeling back your zesty hide like an orange but instead of being sweet, it's rotten fruit that's inside. The fetid citrus oxidises your body with the air and like a boat at the docks, you're out of commission, and you're awaiting deconstruction, rusting until that finally draws close. People move away, like driftwood in this scarlet ocean. Light is merely arterial, and you're seared until rare under this blood sun. You probably at one point try to remember how people used to sound to the ear, but it's all garbled beyond distortion within the entwined tangle of sinew and bone you call, a body. Sometimes I wish I could congeal and bubble into someone's arms, I want to melt away and hear their singing. But the song I hear is screaming, like painful tinnitus cascaded into a cacophony of distant echoes.My tears? Where are they...
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>>36655464>>36655492>>36655517>>36655549>>36655567>>36655580picture related
>>36658119>>36658139btw zoomers, this is what happened to blog culturewriting about yourself anonymously is considered a bad thing nowwe did it reddit
>>36655464>it becomes razor sharp like a blade>the soles of my feet>. I am, not the same.>. It hurts extremely emotionally> it's too long, longer than the sum of all digits used in pi>. Move the 'r' some to the right, and now I am tired.>, it’s taken me this long to realise I have been out of service for a long time.I read all the posts OP. if this is ironic it's gold but if you're being genuine this is ass. I appreciate the attempt to be expressive and interesting with saying the shit on your mind, but writing like this is only getting in the way of it. You took the time to write all this out and post all this and fill the captchas one by one, so there must be something here, but as it is now you've really got to edit it down. It would make it a lot more worth reading.>>36658187yeah i agree, i post that out of spite mostly. I like being mean.
>>36655464sad no respones
I am genuinely baffled at the quality of this writing. Sympathy is hard to give to reppers who are aware of being a tranny, and you spending all a lot time grieving a you that you never tried to even build.
i aint reading all thati'm happy for u thoor sorry that happened
