Stuck in a moment.

I guess that now he's gone, I'm the one you're going to lay all your troubles on. I'm the one who's going to receive all your guilty bullshit. My conscience is stopping me from telling you all the things I want to say, like how you deserve to feel the pain because of all the hurt you caused him. How this is a taste of your own medicine. How I can't wait to leave, all I have is one more year. How constantly low you make me feel. How you aren't as selfless as you think you are. How you are just as selfish and mean as you say I am. I know I'm selfish, I know all I think of is myself. I know I'm lazy, I know I'm mediocre, I know that all I think of is myself. There's nothing you can say to me that I haven't already heard. You are mean. Other people try to lift the confidence of those around them, you repeatedly try your best to bring me down. You doubt me so much, it makes me sick. And the worst part is, I'm alone to deal with all your pent-up frustration.

Teach me gently how to breathe.

I stand patiently, quieter than usual, as if silence will calm my tossing stomach.
But it doesn't.
It rages and churns, like a violent sea, crushing innocent sailors and their little wooden boats. The rooms spins and and everyone becomes a distant blur, every sound is further away and out of reach, all I have are my hands against the wall, in hopes of finding a better place.
Moments melt into each other and I have stumbled into my sanctuary of comfort and release. My knees give way and I am on the floor, soaking up the cool tiles, waiting for my dizzy head to clear. I have never been this far gone, and the loss of control is neither thrilling nor comfortable. I feel far away, like I am floating in space while my body lies in the dark bathroom, aching and sick. I hear voices rush to my side, and caring hands pick me up and stroke my hair. The sudden movements have upset me, and out of nowhere, I release the contents of my stomach, over and over again until all that is left is my skeleton and skin.

I wake up to a dense atmosphere and of sweat and hot air, it's been more than two weeks since my father passed away, but on this morning, I have forgotten all about it. I recall that I have not seen him for a few days and I wonder when he'll be home, as if he is on that much-needed vacation we always talked about. Then it hits me, he's not coming back. I remember, he died.

These hands are my own.

The feeling of loneliness just struck me like a flash of lightning in some barren desert.

I was passing idle time by browsing through facebook, listening to some John Mayer, and then I came across a post that I wasn't a part of, and bam! I just felt... so disconnected. I get frequent visits from this feeling, it's not even funny. I don't know where to place myself, who to go to, where I'm wanted, or if I'm even wanted at all.

Honestly, beneath all the exaggerated humour, I do get slightly offended when I'm not invited out with friends. I get that they don't know if they should invite me or whatnot, because it might be too early for me to start going out and enjoying myself again, but I hate the idea of me standing on some lonely island, while everyone else moves with the waves.

It's one of those soft spots I have, feeling left out. I don't know where it originated. I guess from being moved from country to country, leaving friends behind, losing them and making new ones yearly. It all feels so temporary, and I hate that.

So bad, I can't think straight. So bad that my bones shake.

He went on about how much he missed her. How he was aching with a physical pain, how her presence, a simple accidental glance into her eyes as they crossed paths would've been enough to let him last a few more days. She admires his thoughtfulness. She admires his vulnerability. But she still doubts the exaggeration that laces his words. So maybe he isn't lying, maybe he does miss her. "But if he missed me that much, he'd go out of his way to see me," she thought to herself, with heavy sighs, "and so far, he hasn't done anything of the sort".