It does seem more than a little hopeless.

I don't want to live my life waiting for tomorrow, waiting for four years from now, waiting for a future that may be no more than more waiting.

I don't know how to live any other way.

I'm not happy yet. I don't know how to be, not when all that I can do is put up with that which I don't like and pray for a possibly-better tomorrow. I don't know how to force myself into joy.

Of course I will try, but it does seem more than a little hopeless.

These are the things that I ought not say:

He is the only person that I miss. He is the one that I think of and the one that I want to return to. If I were to see him today, I would still love him. I cannot say what I will do in a few months.

Yesterday I bought razorblades with the full intent to use them.

I am isolated, lonely, and sporadically depressed. Thus far, I am disappointed with Whitman College.

I speak not to incite pity or fear; this is only in an attempt to be honest.

I want to be angry.

I want to be able to take out all of this emotion, violently, on the undeserving and the unprepared. I want my tempter to snap like brittle kindling. I want to hate for no reason at all.

I can try but I can't manage it. I am angry at myself—for the rest there is nothing. Longing, maybe. Regret. But beyond that there is nothing, although it would be easier, although it would wring this out of me, although it would help. My anger is internal, a self-destructive and corrosive thing. That's all it is.

I do not know how he does it—how he maintains that countenance so consistently and so silently. He can be a gentleman in thought and in word and in action without so much as stirring a muscle.

It is admirable.

For the rest of us—the faces we prepare to face the faces that we meet eventually break down. We lose composure, every now and then.

He does not need to.

(Of course he does, as we all do. In silence and solitude, he splits wide open.)

In front of the rest of us, he does not need to.

I went to the counseling center to make an appointment for next week because all that I have done thus far is make myself worse.

I hate admitting I'm weak.

This problem was supposed to remain my problem. It's my life, my fault, my responsibility, except that now I'm turned to others because I'm not strong enough to make it alone. I can't stop it, or lessen it, or keep it under control.

So that's how it goes.

I don't know if I will lie. I don't know if I will go. Stuff like this was never my strong point.

Today, I did not cut.

Instead, I drew horizontal lines on my upper arm with a red pen. Instead, I took five minutes, lay on my bed, watched the wall, and cried. Instead, I forced my mind to concentrate on homework until three in the morning when the urge had finally passed.

It is really fucking hard not to cut. Not cutting almost hurts more than giving in to the urge. In every second, every moment, the thought is there, the urge is there, the knowledge of scissors and razors, pain and blood, is there.

Today, I did not cut.

To those that shall remain nameless (all of them):

I am not angry at you. I have no reason and no right to be. I am only angry at myself, but it is getting to be hard to tell. I apologize.

I am holding on to the past and that angers me. I am hurting myself and that angers me. I am holding grudges and that angers me. I am expecting too much and that angers me.

Those that shall remain nameless are victims to the irrational, unrelenting, irrelevant anger that I am too weak to keep inside. I apologize.

There is a boy, dancing. There is a boy dancing to mediocre music, out on the green, his hair alive, his shorts slipping down his hips, his skin shining in the heavy summer heat.

There is a boy dancing as if no one is watching, in frantic movements, in spasms of joy, in rolling.

There is a boy dancing as if no one is watching but everyone is watching. He is alone and wild on the grass. He is a spectacle.

There is a boy dancing as if no one is watching but everyone is watching because he is spectacle.

We are overthinking.

If you think at all, overthought is not far. Overthought is a room you wander into when lost, a place you find when thinking before you even know it's there. Overthought is easy.

I overthink. I overthink to know that I am thinking, I overthink because it is easier than action. I overthink because there are no answers.

There never is that much detail.

There is not enough detail here but we are overthinking. We are analyzing what was accidental and what does not exist. We are searching for the missing connections.

In class—

Or in life—

Naked—

Naked skin.

Sitting, legs crossed, her shorts are already too short, they couldn't shorter, her sandals are slipping off and making naked legs longer.

Obscene.

I don't want her to speak—I can't stand her voice I don't want her to think. I want her to stand, to walk, I want her to turn her back to me and I want to see naked legs, the round of her ass falling out of those obscene terry cloth shorts. I want to see a real tan and shaved skin and sunlight.

Stupid whore.

I don't want to see her face.

The best thing I could do would be to date again.

I am still attached to the boy I left back home. He is still the one I think of and dream of and long for. I still love him.

Dating would force me to recognize where I am, to embrace it, to find other friends and new people to rely on. I am not here, not yet, because I am constantly thinking of home and who I left behind. Dating would change that.

But in thinks like there, any reason is a wrong reason, and these are the worst.

The thing is, I remember being happy. I can see it in my writing. The littlest things used to bring me joy. I would delight in the comfort of eating breakfast or the weight of cloudy skies.

I don't have that anymore.

I miss it. I miss what it felt like to be happy. I miss enjoying the little things. When the change happened I didn't notice—it's only now, looking back, that I can see the difference and see what steps brought me here.

This will pass, because things always pass.

But, you see, I used to be happy…

12 months is a long time. 12 months is 365 entries. 365,000 words.

I don't know what patterns or progress can be found in all of that writing and time. I don't know what there is. Honestly, I don't know why I bothered. I think it's good for me. It keeps me writing, keeps me bullshitting, keeps my right hand moving even when there's nothing to say.

Like right now.

There are instinctive for me now—scribbling them, counting them, posting them. So I'll continue, of course, for who know how long because I'm obligated to and because it's unavoidable.

I'm nervous.

I'm excited too, of course I am, but right now I'm mostly just nervous. I don't know what's going to happen because I honestly don't know where things stand anymore. I don't know what things are anymore.

Understandably, I'm nervous.

This is why bad breakups are easier. Hate is straightforward, and it fills this gap where I can't figure out my actions. Where we are, nothing's been decided. What do I do? How honest can I be? What can I say?

I'm excited and I miss him, but I don't think I want to see him, not now.

Does she know she's this beautiful?

Of course—that's why she dressed in short green skirts and black stockings, that's why she comes in late, that's why she says nothing. She knows that the less she seems to care, the more the rest of us are watching.

Picking at her nails with her thin legs crossed. Kicking a tiny black-shoed foot. Doodling hearts and concentric circles with bright pink ink.

Little bitch. Little stuck up tiny pretty silent bitch. Pristine little whore.

I hope she hates herself but refuses to let us know. I hope she's ugly when she's old.

I do not exaggerate my fear. There is no need to.

I only exaggerate to match the facts to the fear. The facts must match the fear. The fear is the truth.

Alone, the facts mean nothing.

I exaggerate and undermine the facts until the reality is real. I do what I must in order to be understood. I do what I must to make it real.

It is lying, but it is not the same as lying. It is the only reason true is true. It is how I operate.

It is how I must operate to be understood.

I don't know what I'm saying anymore. I don't have a clue anymore. These little children, these bastard children, are all contradictory and broken and fragmented and lost.

That's how it goes, I guess.

I'm rushed. I'm lost. I'm spurting impossibilities and other vague scribbles of bullshit. I'm worried and nervous because I always am. I have nothing to say any more. I have too many words. I repeat myself. I lie to myself. I'm a bitch. So are you. I should've given up a long time ago. I have no reason to be here.

I have no more space.

I know the feel of it.

The numbers on the scale dictate the scale of the argument and the weight pulls me down—gravity makes it grave, makes it heavy, makes it a weight to carry.

I understand the gravity of gravity and what every ounce means: every ounce of excess form, every ounce of excess feeling.

Gravity means shedding pounds. Gravity means counting, it mean numbers—the reverse mathematics of physical weight and mental weight.

Gravity is every mouthful I consume and what those mouthfuls do to me—

—it is my mind that the gravity crushes—

—into the ground.

I'm terrified.

Terrified.

At a loss.

Lost.

I don't know what I'm going to do. Or why it matters. Or why it should matter. Or who cares but me.

I am too young to pretend I know what love is, but I know what he was mine, once. I am too stupid to work out these puzzle pieces, but I know I miss him. The rest is a mystery, a chance, a risk we're taking.

A risk I'm taking.

I'm never quite sure if he cares any more.

I don't know if I do.

When we go driving at night, your face is made up of folds and shadows. You are close enough to touch and even now I still can't see you. I am beginning to forget what you look like.

The streetlamp peaks light on your hair, your brow, the edge of your nose. You stare straight ahead, you move only when necessary, you say nothing, but your face is fluid. Broken into fragments, small orange strips of curved light, it contorts and shifts as the lamps pass by overhead. Nothing else is changing, and I don't know who you are anymore.

Disengaged.

I've written this before, haven't I? But it's me this time. This time, it's me.

Disengaged, in part or in whole, partially or completely, and I don't care anymore. I think that I would like to sleep, or maybe wake, or simply just leave. I don't know. I don't know much anymore.

Disengaged, brain disconnected from the heart, and one of the two is dying. Sometimes I can't think. More often, I am trying not to feel. Disengaged, by choice or by force, and it doesn't matter anymore.

Not much matters anymore.

Nothing matters anymore.

Disengaged.

And still disengaged.

She entwines her own legs—she needs no lover for that, she needs no weak prop. She entwines her own legs when she sits, then she stares, stiffly, straight head, and she avoids blinking. She is unique—see her legs? She is in control—see her still eyes?

It shouldn't count when she's faking it, but it does. It shouldn't be enough, but it is. I should hate her but of course I don't, she's just some other girl that I want to be or want to be with. Bitch boots and black-jeans, long hair and heavy eyes.

It works.

There are so many things I want to do and even more that I ought not, and Everything is tempting.

Everything is tempting. Nothing makes it easier. He isn't making it any easier. These accidental sins infuriate me.

What kind of justice is it to hold back a brush of lips against his shoulder, the way that I always hugged him? How is that even just?

Of course I will withstand the temptations. Of course. But I can still complain about them, and they can still make me squirm. Grimace. Hate.

Because everything is a temptation and nothing is allowed.

Devastating.

Life just isn't fair.

What you want you can't have and the rest of it is never that beautiful. Life isn't fair, and that's the point.

He is devastatingly beautiful and I can't have him.

It makes me wish that he were as ugly as I am. It makes me wish that he were not so blessed because then there would be only a kind soul and a brilliant mind, and those are easier to ignore, easier to wish away.

But his beauty is unavoidable—and once I recognize that old desire, the old memories, they call came back.

I'm not staring at my ex-boyfriends ass. I would never do anything like that. I am a better person than that.

But goddamn does he look nice in those new jeans.

I'm not sure if you would call this simple appreciation of physical form or a resurgence of that impossible "the way things were." No doubt it's a bit of both. At least I know that I wasn't mistaken or somehow blinded by romance—if nothing else, even if the relationships is dead or was meaningless, I can still rest assured in the face that he as a nice ass.

Couldn't tell you what he's thinking right now. I can't tell.

I'm thinking about touching his hair, and I don't want him to know.

There's a lot that we will never say to each other face to face. There's a lot that I may never tell him at all. Because secrets like that make me feel ashamed, as if I have already betrayed the both of us, concurrently, individually, without even opening my mouth.

I'm thinking about touching his hair and I bet he already knows all about that.

In all honesty, I don't want to know what he's thinking.

It burns.

He burns.

And if it weren't suicide, then I would give in. If it were possible, then I would give in. But we both know what would happen, because distance hurts and waiting murders. We both know that.

We both know that.

If he asked, I would give in. If I could, I would give in.

He burns. The touch of him burns. And I want to flinch away but it's never quite that easy. It's a test, and I still have feelings for him, and I had forgotten just how beautiful he is.

It burns.

He burns.

This is what I have learned:

Everything has changed; nothing has changed.

We're just friends now, right? We joke around and make fun of each other. We talk about other chicks, we talk about everything. And we're great friends, sure.

But he still steals stuff from my back pocket, he still wrestles things from my hands, he still stands just a little close, and his touch still burns.

It really does.

So everything is fine now and everything has changed now but at least on this front, anything that was felt is still felt and we're going nowhere real fast.

So there's this place I call hell of earth.

You don't understand.

There is this place that we all call hell of earth. The citizens call it hell on earth. Because it's hot, because the people that live there are dickheads, because the roads are old, because there's nothing there, because even breathing there is painful, because it stinks, because the stores are crap, because I was trapped there for hours—hours—hours.

There's this place called hell on earth where I got back together with my ex-boyfriend.

So call it irony or something.

So call it hell on earth.

Irony.

That's how it goes...

That's the irony of it all.

So I set up the situation one way and expect the result one way but the fear and the longing and the fact that I think I still love him means that, of course, this is my irony. This is how it goes.

I know everyone else saw it coming. I'm pretty sure I saw it coming. But it's still ironic, mostly because it wasn't supposed to happen, because there are a thousand problems, because it ought not happen, and because it did anyway and we knew it would.