"Thoughts from the same soul in a different place, different time"

I came across this... what do you think?

"Don't tell me it will get better, don't tell me to cheer up. I am doing this to save myself. With every word I write I am safer, I am stronger. I know that these words will burn through the maddening desire to take a blade to my wrists, a gun to my head, to swallow the pills with water, or to just lean a little further out the window...
Let me escape. "

"Oh, if she were here right now... *laughter*. I should be busted. She should know about this... I almost wish she did... but this is only one part of me, a part she surely knows exists... and that is all it really needs to be.
More would hurt her....
...and I could never be that selfish."

"Tonight I'll dream. Awake or asleep, it doesn't matter. I can hardly tell the difference sometimes. But I will dream. I will dream that an angel has come to save me, that the angel loves me. That I love the angel. And I will try to forget...
but even in dreams you can't always forget.....
I wonder if others like me can see the blood when they look at me. Can they see what I have done? What I want so badly to do?
I hope not... I hope I never find support for the parts of me I despise, and in such neglect they wither and die. I don't want to be this.
I don't want to be sick... and I don't want to be healthy. I want to live the lie the world has handed me.
But I just can't believe it..."

"I was too much of a coward to ask a simple question.
I couldn't look at her, lying in the bed, body near mine, still warm from fucking her boyfriend on her mother's bathroom sink, and ask, "is he more important to you than I am?"
I don't even fear the answer..
I fear a lie.
If she told me the truth, I could accept any answer... but does she know that?
I couldn't take a lie... there's too much goodness between us, and I already fear losing her...
So I can't ask.
I can merely sit and wait... and watch... "

"I have...
a desire.
I would like to see... the inside of a working arm.
To take someone, any one really, maybe even just myself....and draw my scalpal up the underside of their arm. Carefully.
I would like to slowely peel back the skin... and look. Look at it, prod it, move things...
Today, I chose the man I would do it to, were I ever allowed to.

She said... that sometimes I seem like I want her. I guess I'm pretty transparent...
Not transparent enough though.
She said she would know if I were thinking about killing myself.
She didn't."

"How... do you put a scream into writing?"

"I feel so paranoid. It is ridiculous.
I want to throw up.
I just don't know what to do. I am feeling this all-consuming confusion... and how does one explain confusion?
I told her I was confused, and she kept asking why? about what?
About everything. All I know is wake up, go to class, come home, repeat. Nothing else makes sense."

"I feel broken.
I am exhausted from strain, from nightmares, and from her. I can't understand.
I am so afraid...
that I will go back to that point...
where I believe that it will be better for all if I am dead.
I am afraid that I will again believe that my family would heal...
and that she would move on as she always does.
I know that is not true... but God do I feel it."

"I'm one sick fuck, aren't I?
No wonder I scare people off...."

I am sick. I am paranoid, I am having panic attacks, I hurt myself, I am confused about things as simple as what is real, and I am becoming violent and it scares me. I need help; I am actually sick."

"I can almost see a pool of darkness... I would reach out for it if I thought I could touch it. I would immerse myself in its calm...
I would revel in the peace as it seeped into me, taking out the pain, the sorrow, the useless rage, the scream I cannot release, even as it all build in my chest, a sphere of swirling black, grey and red...
What a beautiful dream.
I wish I could see stars tonight... snow is a beautiful treat... but nothing will ever replace the purity of stars."

"Fuck quitting. I used to think I couldn't live this way anymore. Now I think that I can't live any other. I've damaged myself to deeply.
Fuck this hell.
How could anyone want someone as damaged as I am?
Or am I the "runt of the litter," the sick puppy, the kitten with the bald spot, fuckin "Mr. Belvadere," so pathetic, damaged, sick or just fucked up that you have to love me, once you've stopped and looked in my eyes?
Is that something I can be proud of?"

"What do you do when they don't even know they're torturing you?
"I love you."
"I love you."
Two different sentences. Very different. But perceived as the same... I suspect that may be my only salvation now... That my words are never understood."

"I'm disgusting."

"I have concluded something.
I am a heartless freak. I used to know that. Unless I am "needed" for some reason, I am more trouble than I am worth. Perhaps that is why he doesn't want to see me. Perhaps he has suddenly realized that I am not the perfection that he thought I was.
I am still scared though."