I don't have much to say anymore. I'm getting sicker as each day passes.

When you have lost all reason to live, is it too late to be saved? Love could tear down these walls, but can the monster be caged? Your love would be safe with me. But with each bite, I am on my knees; each night staring at the ceiling waiting for the sun to rise.  When will it come down on me? Sleeping hasn't been so polite. The hunger inside consumes my being and I wonder which one of us will win. I will not be caged.

Binge. 

I have started to appreciate a lot more, but I am still neglecting Xanga and my tattered writing book.  I'm afraid if I begin to write again, document my life, I'll be aware of everything I have suppressed.  I'm in a good place right now.
 

It has been a year since I have rested my macbook on my legs and tried to write anything worth reading. Time has passed so quickly, but what have I accomplished? The scale reads new numbers each day, but the scribbles I have collected do not account for anything.  Nothing is good enough anymore, and that includes me.

I fell asleep next to one who had once spent the day in my bed. Telling ridiculous jokes, snus in our bottom lip. His arm around me, breath in my ear. In drunken slurs I told him of a boy I might love, but the night went on; my best friends and I spending a night in the woods. Caressing my hand, playing with my hair, calling me gorgeous. He reminds me of you. I wish he was you. I woke to a cold cabin, left by my friends, sitting alone on the kitchen floor eating the remainder of my cheesecake. Driving home through the snow as you float through my mind. "I just want you to feel like someone cares about you cause sometimes I don't think you do." Bloodshot eyes, a swollen raw throat. Everything is you, you are everything. It is sad tomorrow I will be spending yet another birthday alone. I am nineteen and have nothing. I have learned by now that wishes do not come true.