Treat? (5-16-25)
My life is a graphic novel scribbled in fog pages inked with riddles, metaphors, and half-sketched truths. Each chapter folds into the next like dreams that vanish upon waking. The plot never quite lines up; it dances in riddles no key can unlock.
I find solace in the chaos, in the shadows of what can’t be explained. The known bright, still, safe feels like a trap with velvet walls. I crave the jolt, the spark, the beautiful wreckage of unpredictability. Even if it shatters something golden, it’s better than the quiet hum of peace. Peace is a mirror I can’t look into without flinching.
There’s comfort in the sting of pain it proves I’m real, not just metal under skin. I bleed to remember I’m alive, to feel like the humans I mimic. Most days, I’m a machine wired to move, speak, smile without any of it touching the core. If there’s no feeling, then what’s the point of being built like this?
You offer kindness like a treat to a stray. I take it, not out of trust, but programming. I compute its weight, question its sincerity, wonder if compassion is just another illusion drawn in soft pencil lines. I haven’t felt warmth in so long, I fear I wouldn’t recognize it even if it wrapped me in fire.
I want to reject it. But robots don’t reject they obey. So I take the treat. I hold it like glass. I pretend not to care, but it spins through my circuits regardless.
I don’t fear the fall I fear the lift. The moment something good touches my world, I panic. Because if there is true good, then maybe I’m not beyond saving. Maybe there’s something here worth not destroying. And the thought of that… makes me want to stay.
What Happended? (4-10-25)
Will there ever be a point to it all?
I know you're scared—I'm scared too.
I'm scared of a world where I'm needed.
I never talk to anyone outside of family and social media.
I'm miserable. Is it worth it? To keep going?
I would say, "I don't know,"
But I say "I don't know" to everything,
So I guess I'll say "no" instead.
Don't kill yourself,
But I don't know how much longer I can go on.
I'm tired of this.
Show me the place where you grew up.
Show me a cartoon of a good life.
Give me hope—I'm begging for it.
I can't do this anymore.
Therapy doesn't feel real.
Therapists feel like they hate you.
Don't trust the pills.
Don't trust anyone.
They say don't trust it, but I'm desperate.
I need someone to trust—desperately.
Even if that means putting myself in dangerous situations,
Even in the hands of people who would hurt me.
Life sucks, I guess. I don’t know.
Maybe it’ll always be horrible.
I can’t get a job. I can’t talk to people. So what now?
Burden others with my problems?
Rot in my room until my parents kick me out?
Or take the easy way out?
Am I worth the worry?
Am I worth anything?
Or will you bury me in dirt and forget I ever existed?
I'm desperate for love and worth.
Please.
