Wow, can't believe he actually read my blog. Obviously never thought that would happen otherwise I wouldn't have posted half the shit I did haha.
On the other hand, I guess it's actually a good thing. Now he knows how I felt. It doesn't feel as awkward between us any more. I think we're actually proper friends now.
Ah well, we'll see.

What the actual fuck?!
Just found out that my ex (well, I guess he's just one of them now) lost his virginity to one of my friends from primary school on the weekend. When I heard that, my stomach honestly just dropped and I felt like crying/vomiting/dying/yelling/punching something all at the same time. It made me realise I still have feelings for him. After, what, three months, I'm still not over him? This is pathetic. Okay, yeah, I'm jealous. But I thought he could do better than that. He said he wanted to wait until he was 'in love'
I guess I just wasn't good enough for him to fall in love with.
I want him back.
There, I admitted it. Too bad he'll never read this. Even if he did, would he care? Would he say anything? I doubt it. He has no feelings whatsoever for me anymore.
Why do I always have to fall for the ones who don't want me? The ones who've already wanted me. This isn't fair. I have feelings for three guys at the moment, and none of them want me back. I'm thinking there's something crucial wrong with me.

I've been feeling way too down lately, so in maths the other day I decided to make a list of things I like, things that make me smile, things that give me hope. They might seem little, but a whole list of little things makes up one big thing. I wrote it so when I feel like this I can look at it and remember why I've stayed here so long.

• picnics
• rain
• swings
• vintage dresses
• old photos
• op shopping
• holding hands
• guitar hero
• little black dresses
• concerts
• kisschasy
• mosh pits
• bus trips
• waterproof mascara
• friends
• orange juice
• taking photos
• exploring
• green eyes
• boy's chests
• confessions
• heartbeats
• d&m's
• freedom
• films (watching + making)
• thunderstorms
• band t-shirts
• piercings
• polaroids
• freckles
• posters
• twins
• deep lyrics
• stability
• sensitive boys
• duets
• skateparks
• creative tattoos
• inbox sessions with matt <3
• mighty boosh marathons
• writing
• summer heights high
• the british lolly shop
• dressing up
• cold showers
• hugs
• comic books
• anime
• bicycles
• platypuses
• frankie magazine
• nailpolish
• reading
• big headphones
• my ipod touch
• fresh sheets
• red hair
• high-waisted skirts
• whispers
• guitar
• boys who can play guitar
• subtitles
• drumming
• chest tattoos
• streetlights
• colourful shoes
• necks
• swans
• drawing
• computers
• art gallerys
• exhibitions
• odd things
• things that make no sense
• eraserhead
• chaos

I wish my friends cared about me as much as I care about them.
+ I feel like I need everyone more than they need me.
I don't know.
It's not like anyone actually gives a shit about me.

There was blood all over my sheets the other day.
Mum saw and she thought it was because I got my period, she thought it was an accident.
I didn't have the heart to tell her otherwise.
The real reason?
I tried to cut myself open from the inside out.
Not with razors, I'm no stereotypical 'emo' kid.
I used a knife.
I'm still afraid that one day I'll go too far, cut too deep. What'll happen then? I don't think I particularly want to die, I'm not suicidal. I hold onto the hope that everything will get better someday, the suffering will end. Otherwise, what reason have I got to stay?
And why, you may ask?
I was thinking about everything. About repression, about his hands on me, about abuse.
It wasn't even really that though.
It was really the fact that I saw myself in the mirror for the first time since god knows when. Really saw myself. Saw how fat I've gotten, how truly ugly I am. I couldn't stand it. I can't pass for 45 kilos anymore. I really can't.

I hate that I forgot they were there, I was walking around without a shirt on like I do when I'm home alone, and my parents saw. My stepdad thinks I did it for attention. He doesn't understand. Nobody does, not unless they've done it. If I wanted attention, do you think it would be on my stomach, which I don't show anybody? Nobody sees my stomach.

They're not angry. They're not mad. They're 'disappointed'
Another parent trick, as Matt said. They know it makes me feel worse than I would if they said they were mad. I wish I could go back.

And you know what, fuck him. Fuck him for leaving. Fuck him for fucking with my mind. Fuck him for not knowing what he wants. Fuck him for dragging me into it. Fuck him for being such a fantastic kisser. Fuck him for ruining my favourite band. Fuck him for barely saying a word to me before I left. Fuck him for not waving. Fuck him for getting my hopes up. Fuck him for making my hopes useless. Fuck him for taking off with my fucking happiness.
Fuck me. Fuck me for always getting into situations like these. Fuck me for caring. Fuck me for not knowing the words that would have made him stay. Fuck me for not knowing what I want. Fuck me for wavering. Fuck me for not kissing him back the right way. Fuck me for getting my hopes up. Fuck me for not having more realistic hopes. Fuck me for making him the reason for my happiness.
If I hadn’t stayed those two extra minutes in the bathroom, staring at the mirror, as if my face would suddenly tell me the answers my mind didn’t know. If I’d been able to push through the crowd of thoughts in my mind instead of being stuck inside its haphazard body-maze. If I’d seen him before I got to the door. If I’d said something when I saw him coming. If I’d managed any of these ifs – would I have been able to avoid the inevitable fuck up, the full force fuck off? My pride shut me up, my hurt shut me down, and together they ganged up on my hope and let him get away.

I didn’t let him go. He went. It’s not my fault. He did it. He could undo it. This is feeling so fucking familiar. Why do we even bother? Why do we make ourselves so open to such easy damage? Is it all loneliness? Is it all fear? Or is it just to experience those narcotic moments of belonging with someone else. Didn’t you know it was as simple as the way you dragged me out the door? You didn’t have to make out with me to get me there. And now I know this. And now I can say this. And now you’re gone. It’s my fault, isn’t it? Fuck this. Fuck this wondering. Fuck this trying and trying. Fuck this idea that two people can become one ideal. Fuck this helplessness. Fuck this waiting for something to happen that probably won’t ever happen.