I really don’t know guys. 

Tonight, I’m too high on ambien to write. 

Too many people I know read this blog. 

Everything is about to change and I’m nervous and excited. 

Starting over is always fun. 

The girl who lives next door to me has been screaming Avril Lavigne lyrics while jumping on her bed for the past hour. I’m also fairly sure she is screaming at someone in her head and running into the walls. I have come to believe that she may in fact murder me in my sleep. 

If so, thank you for making me feel special tumblr, even if it was just for a short while. I hope I meant something to all of you out there. I hope all of your dreams come true. 

always, always,

elizabeth bones

My eyes are all fuzzy from ambien again, 

but these fingers have a story to tell. 

Tonight, across web lines surfed, a video appears on my screen of a boy, not a bit older than me

injecting a needle filled with you know what into his blood stream. 

I watched it while rocking back and forth on my bed, Dick Jones—as always—on the other side of the phone. 

“How can he do that?” I whisper over and over. Feelings I did not think I still had in me rising up as I watch my friend commit himself to a life. 

“He was always like that, Lisa. You know that. He’s wanted to do this his whole life.”

The video cuts to his face which looks… I mean, scared. He looked scared. I can’t even try and be poetic about it right now, he looked scared. Maybe he was thinking about him mom or something. Maybe he was thinking about all the money and well-slept nights he’d stolen from her and how many more he would now steal. Maybe he was thinking of his little sister and her haircut that matches his. Maybe he was thinking about his girlfriend. His dreams of being a famous director. His dreams. His dreams. 

Or maybe he was just high. 

Maybe he’d always been high. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that some people are just kind of born with that level of stupid danger in their blood. Some people are born heroin addicts, they just don’t know it yet. You probably know it. You can see it in them. It’s hard seeing people for who they are and the only one who can’t is the one you’re all looking at. 

I watched my artsy friend’s film of himself shooting up heroin for the first time, tonight. It twisted my stomach, it shook me up inside. Regardless of how he turns out, I know I’ll never really get over this. I’ll never stop talking about it like it matters. 

I’ll keep this story going in my head so long, I’ll probably be able to tell it to him when he’s dead. 

Having an eating disorder is so exhausting. I don’t even care about being thin anymore (yes I do, I think everyone wants to be skinny, it more or less just comes down to how much you’re going to let the “you’ll never be perfect because you’re crazy” fact get to you and how awesome you can be at rocking your own thing. I met this girl over the summer that dyed her hair all sorts of crazy colors and I really only talked to her once or twice

i guess she was niccccceeeeee

but she had that thing going (I know she reads this blog so sorry if this is awkward: confusing ambien attack!) where she didn’t give a fuck, she looked different and loved it and all of a sudden everyone else around her loved it too and she went from being the girl with goofy hair to the only girl you wanted to look at in a party).

I missed Dick Jones quite a lot today. I missed his hands knowing mine. I was glad that for those few moments we saw each other over winter vacation, we spent them outside a tattoo shop, drawing pictures of snakes, shivering in the cold 

asking

wait, hahaah, do you think this is a good idea?

So now I have some snake on my back, a little one, a small one, and I guess it has a million different meanings because you’re not allowed to get a tattoo unless SOMETHING INSANE HAPPENED TO YOU AND THIS IS THE VISUAL REPRESENTATION OF SUCH EVENT

but whatever, it’s him. It’s a little him and a little me and sometimes you need stuff like that after you get a phone call saying

“No. I really am moving to LA.”

And sometimes the sky does feel darker and you look in the mirror and your skin looks worse and your eyes start to sag and yeah, all that shit it is real, you really are falling a apart

but you left that eating disorder in 2010 and you’ll always remember the sweet boy you loved curled up in your bed. 

So now like, I’m twenty-two and staying up late at night, sitting in the dark and biting my knees and crying about ghosts I swear that I can 

seeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaa

I realized I will never really get over Harvey Kinkle. 

All the Christian virgins from high school have pretty rings on the finger I’m afraid to touch. 

Lucky girls get to fuck with Jesus Christ smiling at their window. 

It’s winter again I suppose and everyone’s hearts are falling apart. I feel bad for just about everyone I meet until I realize they were already looking right through me. 

I wish sometimes I could turn invisible and glide by everything I wish I’d never seen, but these are just daydreams and I can’t stop rhyming with my broken knees. 

I don’t even know if that’s how you spell adderall. 

Add her all. 

Biting at my tongue ring again. I get sick of it being in my mouth, but I need it there, like I needed my thumb when I was a kid and I needed cigarettes when I was seventeen.

I’m afraid to write my big honors project even though it’s all in my head. Maybe I’m just lazy. I think I’m just lazy. 

Winter time is strange. I was at the doctors with my grandma and there was a TV on and it kept talking about Seasonal Affective Disorder and doctors are always telling me I have that, but I’ve come to believe that doctors tell everyone everything

I guess this falls into the same silly category of “he’s only saying I’m pretty so he can fuck me”

Do you feel like that too?

Why can’t I believe there’s something wrong with my head? Why can’t I just accept it and take some pills and sit in front of the happy light my mother bought my six years ago for $200 and I turned on once, freaked out and shoved into the back of my closet with work out shoes I never wore and bongos I never really learned how to play. 

Sadness. Oh, dear sadness. I won’t ever really let you be apart of me, though I know you’re there as truly as it comes. 

I just keep coming back to this forever true fact that I’m thin and young and somewhat attractive and it’s not fair for me to say I’m depressed because my dad never loved me enough or because my first boyfriend made me cry heaps into the snow. 

I feel like I don’t deserve to claim the same words by those who lost parents and partners. I don’t deserve those words, I haven’t earned them yet. 

I’m just a girl whose nervous in crowds bigger than three, a girl who clams up so tightly, people say things like, 

“She thinks she’s better than everyone else.”

I wish it could all be the way I wrote about it in my diaries. 

Sometimes I’m afraid to write and I feel dumb with pens in my hands. 

I sit around for like, hours, doing the dumbest shit. I misuse punctuation marks in the stupid blogs nobody knows I keep. I look for sexy ads on craigslist and respond in red lipstick (no I don’t, I can’t tell you why I wish I did). 

I keep thinking that everyone must have secrets that run as red and as deep as mine, but I’m not sure how many. I feel like nobody’s fingertips bleed quite as much as mine. 

There are so many things up in my head, so many things I want to bring into real life, but hesitate to because, because

I’m always say beacauses and then never finishing them up, I can’t write even though it’s all in my head, I can’t make things real because I’m scared of how they’ll feeeeeeeeel. 

“You have to stop fucking with people,” he whispered into my ear. “People’s hearts are real whether or not you want to believe that, whether or not you’re ready to accept that.”

We had sex in the room he grew up in, on stale wood bunk beds, small, glow-worm stars taped up by loving parents. He slid inside me as easily as the movies would make on imagine and I traced my fingers along the adhesive stars. 

“I love you,” was whispered in my ear. I dragged my finger nails back and forth across the wood, inches from his head. 

“I want to be with the stars,” I moaned. 

He lost control and began to move faster inside my body. 

“You are, you are… you’re in the stars.”

My eyes grew foggy. 

“Nothing makes any sense.”

I pulled one off the wood. It twisted between my fingers, years and years of holding onto something, only to experience the letdown of being taken by my thin fingers. 

“You’re from the stars to me.”

I crumpled the small star between my fingers and continued holding my breath.

because 

because

because

because

well, what the fuck would you do, when you’re six years old and it keeps raining

and you’re talking to your mom on the next plane

saying

i didn’t get it

i didn’t get it

why can’t I touch the ground?

It all happened 

because

because

because

I was thirteen and I still swam in the deep end

and that woman on the street, the one with broken feet

she kept saying

well you don’t even have a life line to read. 

When I was twelve I used to suck the stingers off honeybees,

When I was done, there would be a type-writer

Cha ching cha chiiiinnngggg

When I was thirteen, I wrote my diary on the back of a dead sea

I used to sing in church,

but then I saw God and began to lurch.

When I was fifteen, I traded my v-card for a pokemon named Retard.

And I trained him to level 7000, his moves never got better, his evolution never found him. 

When I was sixteen I drove a car off a bridge,

I kept thinking I should have been doing donuts in your front yard

You said you didn’t like breakfast. 

I had taped a picture on that steering wheel, 

so that I could look at something to smash. 

Turning seventeen, I traded all my blood cells for jujubees. 

And when my mother found me naked in the driveway,

She said: I’m so glad you didn’t turn out like your father. 

But really, it all comes down to this one little thing.

However sharp a pin point is, you can never have a pet bee

or

take him for a walk

teach him to talk

watch him stiiiiinnnnng.