A ghost in a box with a bow.

The times that I’m low aren’t a product of me realizing I’ve made a mistake. So often I see suicide being commented on by people who aren’t my kind saying my kind “wakes up”, that they realize they made a mistake and can’t undo it, that their reality is fixed and they’re a freak being lied to. I always felt that was untrue but never spoke up about it until now, I didn’t quite have the words. So here I am, up way too late, pushing myself to cry and express my frustration with that concept. See I don’t think people wake up to those things, not in the way the other side secretly wants. I think my kind wakes up that there’s not “enough” that can be done, it’s a subtle difference but one that I think matters. I think about how I wonder if I can claim this mountain, if I can be who I want. To be honest, the paths always a silent acceptance that I’ll never be, that my friends hate who I am to my core, that my friends could never accept me, truly do so. That I slip up my voice and often around new company which makes it harder to go back and be me again. That, truthfully I can’t ever have kids, I can’t get time back, that I’ll always be different than. My regret, is steeped in a lack of forward progress, the final snap to reality is that I can’t do more. They say it’s regret, yet I feel none, I feel anger. Anger that I can’t do more, that things can’t be made right. That my friends will never “love” me the way I love them. As cold and as distant as I am, as over analyzing and paranoid as I may be. I’ll always be best in a closet, a ghost of the girl I wanna be. It hurts, I don’t even want to say more, I’m sorry.