and when I say I can’t stop dreaming, I mean that I can’t stop fantasizing about my death. And when I say I can’t fucking stop fantasizing about my death, I mean that I cannot stop making plans about it, but at the same time I know they’re unreachable. I am unreachable. I’m too damn sensitive. I don’t want anyone to ever become too close to me. And I so need them to. I just know I’m gonna fucking screw it up. I care too much about everyone, they never really care about me. The ones who do are the ones who I don’t want to be friends with. I mean, I’m obviously too much of an asshole, I just can’t stand stupid people. I always look up to those who are smarter than me and of course much more interesting (it doesn’t take much to be so, though), and they never find anything good in me so they just go away. Or I go away before they go away. I can’t write, can’t speak. I can barely walk without feeling lost. I can’t feel my feet. I can’t feel my hair and I get scared that it will disappear like the look in my eyes is slowly disappearing like the perfume in my skin is slowly disappearing like I am disappearing. I can’t stop looking at the clock. Every minute, I want everything to end. Every day, I want everything to begin. I’m just another teenager that will not find her place in the world, not because there isn’t one, but because she started looking for it way sooner than expected and now it’s become too late. I wish I could give my body to someone who could take better advantage of it.