The Battle And The War. Creative Writing.

[QOD 0]

I cannot say what I feel, if i feel anything at all. I yearn for my self, for the comfort of certainty, the certainty of understanding. Undying, unfufilled desire- where is the novacaine? This will be the last time I indulge in the transient, mind-numbing isolation you, so generously, offer in exchange for my soul. Anything to deny sensation. I am weak. I am that which i loath. I am my own parasite. I live to destroy myself, determined to suffer, I endure self-hatred and the emptiness of denial because I feed on the pain. I felt something today. A grotesque convergence of anger and frustration that made me want to gorge and vomit. I imagine thrusting a kitchen knife through my gut, dragging down, over and up so my intestines spill out onto the carpet. I hate my stomach because it is too weak to handle the tsunami of emotion I experience when I refuse to dam(n) my truth with a crutch. I cried instead.