these are enlightening times, these scorching hazy summer days

my dears, your comments have been saving me these past few days. i'm in a crisis point. you're keeping me going. please write more. please.

my parents are afraid of how the doll they've created has begun to subtly rebel, or in their eyes, to defect. it is not pretty. i am keeping them at a distance but they blunder through my crepe paper boundaries. i am not brave enough yet to build brick walls. they have not learned the meaning of the term. and thus i am driven to pills and food and blood and cigarettes smoked in the night in the dark, overlooking the vast lit city, trying to determine if i do indeed exist.

i'm living on borrowed time, in a borrowed context. i do not belong to myself. no wonder i cannot relate. no wonder i am skittish, jumpy, afraid. no wonder i am only vaguely concerned by the damage i'm doing to myself.

if i am thin enough, will they not want to own me anymore? if i am damaged. could i own myself then? what would there be left but pieces. that's all i am now. that's all i've ever been. if in my distress i splatter their porcelain with my vomit, they only feel disgust.

you made me but i do not exist on this earth for you.