This is Me

I guess this is kind of a diary. Delly did this first and I thought I should do one too.

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3. 3

It's quarter to three in the morning and I don't feel good.

I don't know why, I just don't.

I've got a feeling like I should be doing something but there's no way I can do anything without waking someone up. Discounting this, of course.

I find it difficult to sleep.

Even when I don't have easy-access to the internet I just can't relax, I'm the kind of person that always has to be doing something.

You know when you lie in bed at night and dream of what you want to do, to be? Fantasise about what could happen in the future? I don't get that.

I imagine being killed, or raped, or permanently disfigured.

It's like my mind doesn't want me to be happy.

The night does things to my head. It pulls the plug and out pours my creativity and imagination. Except that's not always a good thing.

I write poems and songs, paint and draw, but it's never happy. I only focus on the dark and the twisted, the sickly and the broken. They're my best works. Hell, the movellas that have the most likes are this one and a poem about a dead child whose blood is dripping.

I don't do happy.

Scared?

Angry?

Hurt?

Yes.

Happy?

No.

It scares me sometimes. How twisted I really am.

Like now.

I'm so scared.

I don't know what's happened to me.

When did this start?

Have I always been this way?

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