Every time I read one of my writings I feel pathetic and it doesn't surprise me that it took me so long to realise why. It's because I write about pathetic people: me and my deepest other selves.

It's difficult when you think you aren't worth of good things, good people or moments. When you think all you are worth of is a big abyss of punishment...
..Realising that is a big step, I have to admit, yet I only realise that when things aren't happening. Because when they are, I cannot see it, everything is automatic and it seems to be the ultimate truth.
Isn't fair to be taught to hate yourself and others since you were born. But I suppose world isn't a fair place whatsoever.

Endlessly

Made of burnt memories and torn pages from old books, a soul quietly wandered in. Made of piercing words and cigarette smoke, the lonely soul watched rushed bodies and worried faces through emptied glassy eyes. Made of things that people threw away hopelessly, never noticed by physical forms of existence, the soul quietly wandered... endlessly.

About a boy & ephemeral existence

I used to kiss a boy sometimes, a boy that kissed me a lot. The only boy that could make every bit of my body exists with his sweet lips.

Remnants

I still have remnants of you in me, just like the morning after of the purest cocaine I've ever snorted. You unravelled me and have poured your deepest self just like dust and ravelled me again. You're stuck here just like an addict is stuck in a vicious cycle and I am also desperate: just like an addict on his way to buy his sweet powder. I want you in. I want you out. You're all over me, even in my bloodstream. Then you are out, but not really, not truly, not entirely: there are fragments among my blood and on my mind. It always appears on my skin in the way I bruise and on my bones whenever I die.