Tag Archives: addiction

Diary of the Girl Who Everyone Wants

I see a lot of posts about girls and women wanting to be the embodiment of desire:

To be the girl who is guaranteed a second glance, or a few, when they walk past men and women: not realizing that feeling like you’re constantly under a fucking microscope, that having more good days than bad sure as hell makes people think that a rough day for you gives them an open invitation to make commentary about your appearance, that even on your good days, someone is staring at you picking apart every single flaw that you are already fully aware of, yourself.

The girl who sweeps a sad boy off of his feet, after the girl who he thought that he was going to marry shattered his heart, and makes him feel better: not realizing that I don’t go home after “going home” with him and know that I’m the one who his heart longs for. I’m just a body. A good time. A fucking distraction, but not simply human. I’m the one who makes him feel special for a week, until she makes him heartsick again because the way that I delicately exhaled my cigarette reminded him of the way that he first kissed her lips 9 months ago on the same porch swing.

I hear complaints wrapped all in between longing about how these people don’t want to be just another face in the crowd, another wallflower, another body filling up the room: not realizing that I’d kill to blend it, to be looked over, to be lost in the crowd like I’m lost in my own fucking head. Overlook me, merely just as a passerby and not like you overlooked my budding feelings for him and him and the boy before that.

How they want to be the ultimate objects of lust: not realizing that I’m so sick and disgusted with being solely an object. I’m a huge step up from their hand, but I might as well be because he’s even less emotionally connected to me than he is to himself. I don’t want lust, oh my god, I want to scream, is what I want. Lust has no mercy and in turn, neither do I. But I want to love, maybe, and to be loved. To feel special for longer than a goddamn week only to be dropped faster than a dried out pen when he’s in a hurry to write down his feelings for her.

How they want to be the one who people have jealous conversations about as they walk away from flashing a smile and looking whomever is undressing them with their eyes up and down: not realizing that I want to wear anything, everything, without being looked at like an expensive suit that he’s looking to buy on his first date with the girl that’ll make his heart skip a beat when she’ll first call him “baby.” Or like the porn star who he fantasizes about when they get into a fight and he’s sleeping alone for a while. I’m looking them up and down to read their body language, hoping that, maybe this time, it won’t be so confident and obvious of their one sided intentions.

The one who seduces with a effortless smirk and makes breaking hearts look as mechanical as breathing: not knowing that I smirk because I don’t know how to smile and holy hell what I’d give to genuinely be able to, once. I’d love to even remember the last time that I did and didn’t feel guilty for it. And I wish that I didn’t break a single heart in my lifetime but it seems like the only thing that I’m ever able to reciprocate with my completely septic heart and rotten intentions and terrifying mind.

Babe, do you even realize just what in the hell that you’re asking for? What the fuck that you’re wasting your hours day dreaming about?

I can imagine that when it hits you that this is coming from the girl who “everyone wants,” that I won’t get much sympathy; but baby, I’m not asking for that nor do I need it.

I just want you to be careful what you wish for.

If someone would’ve told me that wishes do come true, I would’ve ran like hell away from all of those 11:11’s and shooting stars and pathetic prayers. 

Love, the girl who everyone wants but the girl who nobody loves



Numbing Numbness (Life of a Writer)

​I can’t say that I feel anything for anyone. Nothing real, at least. 

“I miss you”s and “I love you”s have become so, for lack of a more unique word, empty. Hugs and kisses and sex feel good but not down to my seemingly broken soul. I wish that I could drown out these thoughts with the music and birds and kids playing and car alarm going off right now, but they whisper so softly that it’s almost like a fucking shriek. And I just wanna scream and burn away the painful words that’ll creep their way up my throat with cigarettes and the drip. But the vices can’t save me by drowning me anymore. This is the kind of numbness and disassociation and self confusion that I can’t fuck away. I can’t buzz away; I can’t smoke out of my body. Or snort out of my fucking mind. I’m so sick of being this sick. Was I born this ill? Why do my diseases and conditions have to affect me inside and out?

I miss being held and feeling like I was cured. But it only lasts as long as I can get used to somebody’s body and then the touch of their skin makes me uncomfortable in mine and then I feel disease ridden all over again. I hope to forget about this and read it over two years from now and wonder how long it’s been since I felt so hopeless and lost. But I seem to only get worse with every forgotten passage and lose articulation as time passes. 

I wish that he could save me or, god forbid, another he in my life… but I’ve been told and have told others that you can only save yourself. 

But what a fucking hypocritical cliché because I don’t have the slightest clue of what that means or where to even begin. 

I’m so scared, so fucking terrified and petrified that I will always have to self medicate to pretend to cope with so much fucking pain. I hurt so constantly and so deeply and it subsequently makes me feel more inclined to take it upon myself to dull it.

How in the hell does anyone think that they’re supposed to numb their numbness? 

I don’t think that a writer realizes just how much pain that they’re in until they unload after paper silence for months. It’s such a freeing entrapment.

I feel that I’ve made some sort of breakthrough yet I’ve just dug myself into an even more gaping emotional and mental whole. What a fucking morose contradictory art. 

I don’t know what I want to do or be. I’m afraid that I have no fucking clue of who I am, but I’m more afraid that I know exactly who I am. I think that the latter is more horrifying. 

How the fuck is this any way to live? How in the world is this a life?
~Megan Chruszczyk

Small Town Diaries (Pt. 1)

This small town is so lonely
The streets are empty but overpopulated by desperate sighs for companionship
We fill in the ringing of loneliness in our ears with good music
But good music is only good company until it gets inside of you and then you’re alone once again
My only partner in impossible opportunity for crime used to be whatever I knew would hit my bloodstream first, but I wanted to keep the company of my sanity, so I welcomed loneliness to the seat next to me once again and wrapped my arm around it, placing my detoxing heart in between us
It is possible to regret letting go of an addiction, but I didn’t know what else to use the last of my strength on
You could say that I had no idea that using my last ounce of fight on something that made me feel on top of the world would open the door for such a strength to walk charmingly into my life
I want so badly to go back to my roots, but I have a bad habit of never returning any of its calls for me


10 Seconds Too Long

Some days I love who I am
And some days I’m terrified that I’ll be this way forever
I’m feel so obligated to hold everyone up, but jesus, my arms are giving out and I’m not going to let them go numb
I watched the love of my life turn into a monster and I find myself still crawling back under the bed for some delusional comfort
Without feeding my sickness, I’m a time bomb
Do you want to see me fucking detonate?
Stop telling me that it’s going to be okay because people use it like it’s an absolute of something soon, but “soon” doesn’t save me from mentally holding myself underwater 10 seconds too long
And you know what?
It’s okay to make mistakes and it’s okay to be ashamed of how many times you went back to that person
Just snap the fuck out of it and go with your gut, stop opening your mouth and swallowing the bullshit
Spit it out, stick your fingers down your throat if you have to

I don’t know what to believe anymore
Everyone tells me to trust them, but after everything, I don’t see how I can
I’m trying to figure myself out
It’s okay to be selfish
It’s okay not to make any damn sense


Words Are My Weapon; My Mind Is The Arsenal

I am a writer, the english language is my art supplies

I have an addiction to conversation an unreasonable love for my language

I will not ever personally label my own self as a poet, but I believe that inspiration dances around my words sometimes

I can use the pitch of my voice and movement of my tongue to paint you the most beautiful sunset that you have ever seen

I can get you lost in the most terrifying non-existent dreamland with the seemingly monotonous taps on a keyboard that ends far too quickly for me

I know how to get in and out of trouble. I know how to make you completely forget about what we were supposed to be talking about.

I am a writer; I can make you laugh, I can make you cry, I can make you smile, and I can make you frown

I possess the ability to make your heart race, to make you fall in love, and to piss you the fuck off

I am a writer; your every emotion is intertwined within the ink inside of a single pen, held within every key on my outdated keyboard

I know what I am doing when it comes to words

I know what I am doing when it comes to your imagination

With writing, I, in the moments that you enter the world of my chaotic and enigmatic mind, hold each string attached to every single one of your emotions

And trust me, dear, I will pull as many as humanly possible sometimes

I will shock you, I will impress you

Most importantly, I will open your eyes

I know how to make it look like my first nature. In some ways, it is my first nature.

I am a writer; words are my weapon.

My mind is the arsenal

And I….. I will change your life

~Conversationally addicted word lover~



The people who smoke cigarettes for breakfast

Do you know what it’s like to smell like you wash your hands in tobacco?

Who chase tequila shots with a drag

Then throw  everything up just to fill up with more toxicities

And walk out like hovering their heads over a toilet bowl is a hobby

I hope you can’t taste the numbness on vodka stained lips

And sitting dazed in a shower of burning hot water feels like a paradise

Like everything outside is irrelevant

We don’t know why we do the things that we do

Playing with hearts is a control issue

I can go over all of my decisions but I couldn’t answer a damn question concerning my reasoning behind them

Using sedatives just to slow down our own overactive minds but still never understanding them

The gypsy inspired souls

You see, it’s hard, not wanting to be in one place for too long

So we settle for a little while, get bored, then push ourselves into somewhere temporary only to go back to where we came from, in the end, because we realize its unstable stability

Guess you could say that it’s exactly the same way that we treat people

The people who strive to impress, to shock, to have people question them, wonder about them

The ones with no comfort zone, and seek no understanding of “it’s gonna be alright”

What the fuck is “alright” to someone whose life led them to feel like these things are acceptable?

We’re not done being shameless.



The Summer That I Turned 18

The summer that I turned 16

I’d had a sip of my first drink and “I would never smoke a cigarette”

I was only concerned with the older boy who gave me butterflies

I felt like such the little bad ass when I clumsily snuck out the window to go to a small bonfire across the train tracks to drink slurpees and yell at people for lighting basketballs on fire

Boys set off little water bottle bombs and I thought it’d be cool if someone could be there to put their arms around me because it was chilly

I didn’t have any concept of time and days were spent in the hot sun and nights were spent sneaking out to the park or someone’s house where all we did was talk

The summer that I turned 17

Was the first time I got drunk

I spent most of it alone, stealing all of my father’s alcohol so I could sleep

Some days I didn’t even sleep until 8a.m. because night time scared me because I was alone in my mind and distant from everyone and longed for arms around me this time

The older boy was away and I’d spend a few nights on the phone with a boy I hardly knew as we drunkenly spoke about our worries and our loneliness and sensitive subjects that we acted strong about to each other

I believed the neighbor boys offers were innocent and I painted smiles on my face before I stepped out of the bathroom after I’d just been looking myself in the eyes wondering if I’d be alright for the day

The summer that I turned 18

I smoked a cigarette and haven’t stopped since

I hardly spoke to the older boy unless I was drunk calling him, and in that case, he’d hang up on me or I’d only get a response from the voicemailbox

I don’t speak to him often, let alone think of him much

A year ago, you would never have gotten me to believe it’d be like this

Early in the summer, I fell for someone who couldn’t help but want to keep his arms around me but I always made sure that he’d been kept at an emotional distance

Safe to say that that didn’t go over well and I made an ugly little mess of things

It’s possible to want someone while thinking you’re in love with someone else

But I hope to eventually clean up and continue on in that; it’s just not a good time at the moment

I spent my birthday heavily intoxicated, looking back at what I’ve done and what the hell I was doing

Seeing a friend naked and throwing up in a bowl while I stumbled to the bathroom to hover my head over the toilet bowl so I could get back out there and celebrate the fact that I’d made it another year

Even though that’s not really why I wanted to make a big deal over it, I just wanted to forget everything that’d happened and was happening

I kept my habit of looking in the mirror and questioning myself before I wiped a smile onto my mouth to step out again

My life is lived with a constant poker face

This all made me realize that we’re no longer the troublemakers but the heaps of disaster left over from our recklessness

The days that I’d spent at home I’d get high off of whatever the medicine cabinet presented me, for many days in a row

Every so often I’d add another pill to the count to test how many “one more”s my body could handle to the point of me creating a few “too far”s

I expected that “he” would always be there to catch my pieces and stick them back on me even if I hesitantly picked up and handed him his

You get what  you give eventually, I suppose, because I’m sitting here next to my pieces giving them a half smile and a shrug that says “I’m sorry, I don’t know, this one is on me”

The older boy isn’t the “you” in my writings anymore

And poetry doesn’t seem to dance around my sentences

And I’m truly unsure of what will be picked up and what is permanently left off

But I guess that I’ll pick that back up after the summer that I turn 19