Pages of some diary

I want to cry. I want to cry so hard my face swallows and I can't breathe. I want to sob hysterically. I want mascara all over my cheeks and faded lipstick on my palms. I want to cry my lungs out of my body and stain the pillow. I want to feel my hair messy and the soft satin pijamas on my cold skin. I always get cold when I cry. I don't want to get up from the bed. And I don't. I just lay there facing my left arm and all the scars I'm cursed with. I think I deserve it. I think I deserve my drama, and I deserve to die. It's not a punishment more than it's a relief. I would be so relieved. I just stay there and contemplate a cut, this time it's a clean, deep, long cut, starting from the wrist all the way to the back of the elbow. It hurts, of course it hurts, but it's a kind of comforting pain. I stare at the wound, all that blood flowing on my arm and finally on the wooded floor, feels tickleish. I don't laugh, I put my fingers into the wound and scratch the itch. My nails get dirty red. I noticed, of course I noticed, I'm just too tired to react, it stays on my mind, but I simply don't react to it. I still focus on the wound, why isn't anything happening? Why isn't it over yet?
But then I snap out of my so vivid dream and I tell myself I need to have sex. And I really need to have sex. I need some second-hand, poor quality sex. I need to ride someone's lungs out so I'd feel, oh well, not the way I'm feeling now. I stopped being ashamed about the suicidal ideas when I realized only I could hear them. But that doesn't make me feel better. Only makes me want to rip off the perfectly ironed shirt of a shy boy hidden behind a pair of nerdy glasses. Definetly younger than me. And fuck the Physics out of his brain.  So I just close my eyes and wet my fingers and let them sink into my panties, trying to amuse myself with the image of the poor virgin highschooler that's stuck in my head.