I am as hollow as...

         "Pray until your number, 
         Asleep from all your pain, 
         Your apple has been rotting 
         Tomorrow's turned up dead."

    I created a playlist to listen to while I fall asleep at night.

    I don't sleep at night though.

    I begin sleeping with the world begins waking. At least the east coast, the hardest working coast in the United States because they're the first to arrive at their cubicles.

    The first of everything always has to work the hardest, the first is the revolution whether you believe me or not.

        "I have it all and 
        I have no choice but to,
        I'll make everyone pay 
        and you will see."

    I never thought I'd have to say I've become what I hated because I ever desperately tried not to ever provide myself reason to. I never wanted to be the type of person that spun on an axis of music constantly consuming them. I wanted to believe I didn't need anything. I didn't always need my idols, not even the ones I trusted most to influence me. I don't know if I'm wrong or right, or what my opinion even is, or how I could have clarity in so much confusion.

    Being an influence is such a great honor, and not because of the respect it requires, but because of the trust it requires. Trust is so foreign to me, maybe that's why influential people are so special on their Alexis-crafted pedestals.

        "Peel off all those eyes 
        and crawl into the dark."

    Well, it is 6:06 and it's past Christmas morning.

    Our tree was torn down no less than twenty-four hours after we opened our gifts. It was stuffed back into it's box a day later, and just a day after that it had been pushed back into the attic for another year. That's "family" for you (but that's not even what this really is, here), that's our tradition, that's our love within our home.

    The tree is like my spine, complete with loop installation for easy hanging away, and not the model desired by Meiwes.

        "(I am so tangled in my 
        sins that I cannot escape)."

    I never thought I'd escape the hell I lived in, and now I know I never did.

    Lies have watered me, and lies don't water a flower. An unwatered flower is a dead flower.

    The torturous years plucked at my petals, with every body part not my own entering my body or space dropped away another tendril of my innocence. Everything has been lost in the dirt, but a weed comes from a dead flower.

    With no where else to go from my place in the dirt, I grew into a weed. A strong weed, cut down so many times, sometimes the weed-eater was even held by my own bloodied hands. My wrists dripped, begging to be a dead flower instead of a strong weed. You see, a truly dead flower becomes a blossoming bouquet. As for me, I am a forever a weed, and when I die I will be a weed then too, only finally my roots will be destroyed once and for all. I could leave a patch in the yard, I could not.

        "Someone had to go this far."

    Lately I've been reliving past feelings. Not experiences like deja-vu, making me question a past life or if I have arms broken in a casket, but I know I do.

    I feel so numb, but I've been wearing shorts all night. It's 55 degrees outside, but this isn't what I mean. That is just temperature, it's not numbness, and I've never seen snow so I wouldn't know what a pleasant numbness feels like, but I know this wasn't it.

        "We're on the other side, 
        the screen is us and we're t.v."

    I'm back in my square bedroom with shit brown carpet. I suppose this might be deja-vu.

    I have posters on the walls, Britney Spears and Spice Girls, and my bed isn't against the wall it will be in a few years. I will hide under that bed, clutching my newly abandoned dog's ratty pink leash. She never had a collar, no one ever cared enough to keep it on her. No one cared much about anything except whatever was going on in their own worlds. My father took pills out of the cabinet everyday. My mother typed away at the computer, cheating on our family. My brother threw his bottles against the wall and stained it with formula.

    I hated everyone under that roof, and I justified my hate. No one saved me. No one expressed love towards me. I was nothing. Absolutely nothing, before I truly became nothing when the first uninvited dick graced my lips. I wish I had considered a beheading.

        "Pinch the head off, 
        collapse me like a weed."

    As I said before, I'm back in my room with brown carpet; it might as well be dirt.

    I'm shivering, I'm not cold. The blankets are just there to envelop me, to consume me, "Please, please swallow me whole. Let me disappear. Let me die, please just let me die."

    For years I believed if I concentrated long enough on the suicide of my existence--the most devastating of suicides--I would simply disappear into thin air. I thought I could will my physical body away, but I realized I couldn't soon after my first few attempts. Instead, I dissociated from my body so frequently I hardly have any childhood memories. Dissociation has left me as cloudy as a tank of dead pigs, and like dead pigs I have maniacal scratches.

        "I was born into this 
        Everything turns to shit."

    Crying is holding hands with trembling, and if I died they would have died holding hands. "There's no one here to save ourselves."

    My dad is telling me he's leaving, only for a night. He's visiting a friend.

    "Who?"

    "Her name is ------. She has a son. He likes Zelda just like you, and has the guide. She said he'll let you borrow it."

    I never shared my dad on the playground, and now I'm sharing him with a stranger's miss at the opportunity to abort. She is responsible for destroying my family and the image of my father that I have been supplied with, and I am completely sure that she would have never passed the test required for permission to procreate. The test should include a psychiatric evaluation.

        "You've poisoned all of your 

        children to camouflage your scars."

    I cried and I cried, and still my dad left that night, and multiple nights following it at intervals I cannot remember. I don't know the women, I don't know their names, their faces, or their children's Zelda walk-throughs. I know if I knew anything it would be more violent than this has to be.

    This event, these memories among new ones manifested itself tonight. It replayed flawlessly. I was paralyzed for ten minutes, at the minimum. I don't know how long I laid here before I could move again, before I could write this. I had to write this, for you.

        "The world in my hands, 
        there's no one left to 
        hear you scream."

    I don't know if my father ever realized that at the time, to me, he was the one responsible for our family's destruction. It was never her, I knew she hated me from the moment I was conceived. (Despite my lack of memory, how could you not when you're in the womb of a sociopath.) I was used to her hatred. I wasn't used to him leaving me so abruptly, especially when I cried. Especially when I really cried, and begged. I hoped he let me hate him then for a bigger reason, I just hope he has some plans with real structure.

    Really, I just wanted someone to save me. I wanted someone to shake me violently and ask me why I smashed text books into my head on a daily basis when no one bothered to look at me. I wanted someone to ask me why my play dates were spent in my closet, but I wanted it to be someone that didn't already know.

    All I wanted as a child was to be saved, and instead I got an over-abundance of truth while my other half happily lives in ignorance. Good for him.

        "There's no one left for you."

    Despite my many resentments, I hope no one ever touches him. I hope no one ever scathes him. A lot of people deserve miserable lives, but not him. He doesn't deserve an award of survival, but he doesn't deserve pain and devastation. He doesn't deserve to be a weed. He doesn't deserve unwelcome wings.

    I hope his mother dies before he learns the truth, but mostly I hope with all my heart that when she is a dead flower she becomes the most beautiful of bouquets.

    But only for my brother.

        "Pray unto the splinters, 
        pray unto your fear 
        Pray your life was just a dream 
        The cut that never heals 
        Pray now baby, 
        pray your life was just a dream."


        The Playlist-
        1. Kinderfeld
        2. Untitled
        3. Godeatgod
        4. Man That You Fear
        5. (Untitled)

        "You are [I, am]
        as hollow as the 'O' in God."

    I'm crying as I finish this. It has been exactly twelve hours since I wrote everything prior.

    I feel like I'm on a continuous cycle of breakdowns with a destiny of ultimately sobbing into my pillow, my hands, a towel like my biological mother used to make me do so she could sleep peacefully, anything to drown out my screams. I am so dismantled. No child deserves to be destroyed like this. No child. If "God" is creating these children so others can learn from them, fuck your God.

    Pushing through is my only option. I must remain strong for the greater number, to accomplish the greater good. My head might not be as high as I've held it in the past, but I'm doing my very best, I'm doing more than trying. Eventually my head will be held even higher than ever before. All I'm asking of you, whoever you are, is help me survive the bottom.

 Note- All quotations are lyrics of the song "Man That You Fear", except for the last one, which is from "Untitled". If anything describes how I feel today, it's the excerpts I've chosen.