Angsty diary of a nonhuman nonliving thing:
Sometimes the strength of the things I feel for you scare the living shit out of me. Well…not living. Because you know, I'm not. Living that is. Sometimes I wonder if maybe that is the problem with this. The fact that I am dead. Dead and gone, absolutely and totally incapable of human functions and that includes but is not limited to eating, breathing, breeding, peeing. The usual. Now don't get me wrong; this "life" does have its perks. For example, I don't bleed. Yup, no blood in me. So if I get cut I don't have a mess to clean up. And I don't have a fucking period. Man I was over the moon when I figured that out. I swear the whole damn country could hear my screams of joy.
I've strayed from the original topic though. I love you. Well I think it's love. If I had a heart then I know that my heart beat would be all erratic and shit. And my stomach does actually twist in knots. I love looking at you, any part of you. Even your feet and I hate feet! You hair…the smell of it makes me hurt I enjoy it that much. Your laugh is adorable even with the little snort you slip in there every now and then. Oh wait you hate it when I mention that. Well darling I am not quite sure what the definition of love is. I mean, does something that's dead even feel love? I can feel your skin. I can taste things I put in my mouth. I can smell. So I assume I can feel love. I cry. Nothing comes out but I do cry. And I cried yesterday when you said that you wanted to have children someday. I can never give you that. Ever.
Maybe if I had met you when I was alive, maybe things would've been different. That's how these stories go don't they? With regret and "what if"s and "maybe"s dotting through the paragraphs. Maybe I should drip some water or candle wax on the paper to make it seem more authentic. Would that make this thing any less grubby? I don't think so. And besides, what I think would have happened if we met while I was alive? Well…I think you would have ignored me and continued on with your average life serving sandwiches and coffee. You were bored of humans. That's why you spend so much time with me.
Because you got sick of their routine, their constant need to have everything NOW. You got sick of the breakable bits. You love to wrestle and vent without worrying about causing pain. You absolutely adore being able to stab a body without the "HELP THERES A MESS OF BLOOD AND GUTS ON MY KITCHEN AAAAH MOM CLEAN IT!" Because I can comfort you when you are sad or lonely, or I can sit there while you hit and stab with sharp objects. I don't die (again). I've tried. Nothing I can do to myself makes me stop seeing and thinking and wanting. I miss being alive. I miss being warm. You are so warm. I swear if I smoked I could put the end against your skin and it would light without me having to do anything else. Or that could just be because I am the equivalent to a container of ice cubes underneath a sheet of frozen piss.
Ya know you are really mean sometimes. Always telling me that I don't care about things, always saying that I need to get out more, always always always ALWAYS asking questions about my life before. As if I don't have a constant reminder of the life I no longer have. The life I took for granted. That's you by the way, you sneaky little fuck. Everything you do reminds me of SOMETHING. It's infuriating. I mean seriously? How cruel is it that I miss something like taking a shit? Or eating until I throw up. Or sneezing when the cat flicks her tail at my nose.
I tried to talk to other people once. That was a disaster worthy of a place in "Americas' Most Embarrassing Catalogue of Social Suicide" it was THAT BAD! I got stupid looks just walking around. And I thought that in this town you couldn't have someone so weird they become an outcast. I mean we have a family that dissects its dead pets and hangs the skins on the front fence. And old Mr Gold? He gets on a ladder every single morning and stacks the newspapers on his roof. He has this huge sopping and decaying pile of just newspapers. I don't know why he does it, I mean I thought his dog was a weird one, with three legs and one eye and biting the newspaper boy everytime it can hobble fast enough to catch him without smacking face first into the garbage can. But no. The girl who walks around with unbrushed hair and a blank stare, wearing a leather jacket and pants with holes in them; she's the one who isn't allowed to walk around town. She's the one who can't come get you from work. She's the one who can't go anywhere with you because you'll get the same treatment. People called me so many stupid names and it shouldn't have made me feel bad but it did.
Everytime I think about you and the high possibility that you will find someone else to spend your time with and entertain yourself with I punch the wall. That's why the bedroom walls are full of indents. Because I think about it a lot.
Well you'll be home soon, I don't want you to know I got this silly journal, I mean that's a human thing to do and you come here to get away from humans. I do love you, you silly thing. No matter how confusing and hurtful being with you is, I do love you.
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