why are we are forced to sell the best days of our youth for knowledge we can use only to ensure that our dying days won't be spent in agony?
this is so unkind.

i am not scared. i am not scared.
i constantly find myself questioning my choices, choosing to tell wrong from right and importance from frivolousness with my own concoction of ill-logic mashed with large doses of feral emotions.
once, someone showed me the road to success. she phantomed it on the edges of the morning papers. i'd expected a cross junction, or two avenues at the least. but there was only one.
i was convinced, because she was everything i wanted to be. sparkly things that promised to last all eternity.
and then i look at me now. and all i can think of is nothing. there was only one, she'd said. if you'd asked me when did you crash? i'm not sure i could answer. did i even start? i don't know.
i am not scared. i am not scared.
i believed i could hold myself together, all the pieces intact, so i wouldn't fall apart. so all that is dark and twisty would still be kept in a vault inside of me.
but today, i fracture. and everything seeps out, like venom that unknown voices whisper in my ear, like an infection that creeps over my skin. i will fight it, but not now. tomorrow, maybe.