Tell me I'm an angel

Writing this from the library. I like hanging out here, kind of because home seems so...not-safe? It feels like there could be things hiding behind the shower curtains and around the corner and stuff, the house is too big and empty. I feel like something bad’s happened in it, but I don’t know what.
The library’s really cool and cozy and the lights are all bright, and there’s always people around. Some of the nicer librarians know my name and say hi to me, and there’s always this mom and her little kid who come ever afternoon, and this guy with sunglasses who is always writing stuff and looking on books in the table tucked into one of the darker corners, upstairs in the Adult Nonfiction Section. Me and Alison always make fun of him for the whole sunglasses-inside-thing. Pretty sure he’s, like, a spy.
And of course, there’s Alison, (I think I've talked about her, the Killjoy who’s always hanging around there and she’s also written bandom fanfic and it’s awesome) and I just.
CAN’T.
EVEN.
DESCRIBE.
How awesome she is and cute and I just want to bang on my keyboard and squeal.
We’ve been hanging out at the library, I kind of want to ask her to get ice cream or something. Maybe coffee? I don’t know. Anyways she's trying to look over my shoulder so I'm posting this.

Suffocate this light

When the headaches get really bad, the thoughts running through my head and banging against the sides of my skull say, "go over the rainbow. Go over the rainbow."
It's actually not hard to do. Just focus on the burning feeling in the front part of my brain, and then I'm there. The smell is the first thing I notice, damp and rich. The walls are lined with books and the lights are soft and warm and yellow, and there's chairs in the corners with blankets and stuff. I can sit there reading books, but I never remember what I read. It's not a dream, it's almost like a place in my brain, but it feels kind of like a dream sometimes.
Finally I know it's safe to leave, and it's like I'm flying before I land back into my head. Sometimes it's still a little sore, but it's not that bad.

Hello, angel...tell me where we go from here

I'm okay, if anyone was wondering.
This is totally not the sentence I wanted to begin with. I have like fifty million drafts on word and on blogger and on pieces of paper lying around the house explaining everything and trying to get out all that happened and I could never finish them.
Stuff happened, I guess. And for the past...month? Two months? I don't exactly remember and I'm too lazy to go back and check the dates, but anyways. I've just been doing stuff. Houses are actually harder to run than I thought. I have to clean all this stuff and buy food and I made the mistake of buying, like, all candy at first and then I got really hungry and tried to go to the grocery store at two in the morning on a bike I found in the garage and I got really scared and came back home. It was kind of funny, actually, and I laughed, like, actually laughed, and it felt just weird. It didn't even feel particularly good. It just felt like something. And then I try to save money, so I turn down the AC and go to the library. There's a really nice one that's not too far away.
It's strange. Because once this blog kept me entertained and then it kept me sane and then it just reminded me of stuff I don't want to remember.
There's this really cute girl who's always hanging out at the library. She likes My Chemical Romance, too, we squeed about bandom and listened to music and stuff. I told her my parents were dead and I lived with my aunt and she had to work a lot. Sometimes it almost feels like it's true, but then at night I get the headaches again, but this time they aren't full of stuff that might happen, they're full of stuff that did happen, and facts and pictures and everything too much like trying to read through a textbook with no paragraphs separated while the TV's going and music's blaring and people are talking to you and pinging you on facebook, an information overload that makes me feel like my skull is going to split right open. It's the worst but at least I haven't been getting them during the day.
Anyways, I might start updating again and stuff. I kind of miss it, even though I don't like looking through my blog posts ever.

onwecarry onwecarry

I think I've been out for two days.
When I woke up my door was open.
I'm so fucking sick of this. It is my head. MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE. Between the fucking headaches and this new thing, I feel like someone's trying to pick it apart but NO ONE CAN BECAUSE IT BELONGS TO ME AND IT'S MINE MINE MINE GET OUT. I feel like it's her, that she's picking me apart like she picked my mom apart, like soon I might think she's my beautiful beautiful sister or something, that she'll lure me in like she lured my mom here and I don't think I can stop it. I don't think I can hold out. Maybe if I can just keep saying what's real here on this blog I can look at it over and over again and I will know what's real. She's not human she's a monster she's not the precious-est prettiest girl who ever lived she's a brainwasher and maybe a killer and
WELCOME TO THE BLACK PARADE

and hear a song that I could understand

I was thinking about not posting here any more. I don't want to talk about everything or think about everything and every time I log on and see all my entries I feel like I'm falling down a rabbit hole or something.
I was in something like a trance (???) for several days. I thought I was asleep but I can see that I posted an entry, so I must not have been? It's so easy to lose track of time here, to forget that outside the sun is rising and setting and that people are going to and from work and school and all that. I keep trying to look at the entry I posted, but every time I do I can't read the words, like trying to read books in dreams, and I get a headache, but not really a headache. More like someone is trying to split my fucking skull open and I can't even see straight.
Maybe I'm still asleep. Maybe I'll wake up soon and this will all be a dream

Cats and rabbits
Would reside in fancy little houses
And be dressed in shoes and hats and trousers
In a world of my own

All the flowers
Would be very extra special colors
They would sit and talk to me for hours
When I'm lonely in a world of my own

There'd be new birds
Lots of nice and friendly how do you do birds
Everyone would have a dozen blue birds
Within that world of my own

I could listen to the babbling brook
And hear a song that I could understand
I keep wishing it could be that way
Because my world would be a wonderland

bad moon on the rise

It's sunny and bright but the grass is cool, and the radio's on, the classic rock station, and I'm lying on a towel eating popsicles while my dad hums along to Sympathy for the Devil.
It's cold and the blue sky is dazzling on the snow and my dad's tugging me up the hill in the sled, pretending like he's a sleigh pony, and I'm laughing and yelling, faster, faster,
it's raining slow and drizzly and misty against the windows and my dad drives me to the warm bright library
it's early and the sky's grey and pink and I'm waving at my dad out of the bedroom window while he pulls out our driveway, going to work, until he's out of sight
it's a storm, the winds whip branches against our windows and the sky is dark grey and my mom is panicking by the front door because it's late and my dad isn't home from work and he hasn't called, and I'm hiding behind the couch

I'm sorry

My dad used to tell stories about when he was little. It was funny because he remembered playing football and climbing trees and beating up his brothers and stuff, and when he grew up the most adventurous thing he did was buy the New York Times instead of a local paper. We'd always joke that he didn't get grow up and get stronger, he grew up and got weaker, and then my mom would say that he must not've eaten his spinach and shit like that. I'm writing it here so I'll remember it. I'm writing it here so whoever finds this blog will remember it when I'm not here.
I looked in the kitchen cabinets for the advil, it was nerve-wracking as fuck and I almost had a heart attack several times, which would've solved a lot of problems. There was no advil anywhere. I took a knife from the drawer, but I can't make myself use it. What if it didn't work and I sat here with stabs wounds for days before I died? Maybe I could drown myself in the bathtub? I don't know how that would work, I feel like I wouldn't be able to stay under long enough to pass out, that I'd pull my head up in spite of it all. And when I came back, the plastic bags were sitting on the bed, with a note and a little paperback book attached.
"Page 59, line 28. Don't you want to face what you were born for?"
I tossed the bag out the window again, but I still can't stop shaking. Someone was in my room and I don't know who. I took off the comforter where the bags were sitting, but I still don't want to sit where they were. How did they even get into my room, I've locked the doors and everything just fuck it I don't know what to do. Will they come in when I'm here? Are they going to kill me? Could I convince them to do it quickly? I want to go into the closet but all I can remember is my mother's eyes watching me through the door.
My dad talked about his siblings, the stuff they did when they were little. I've never met any of my aunts or uncles. I wonder if they didn't talk to him or he didn't talk to them. I keep wishing I had their phone numbers and that I could get them to come and take me out of this, but I know if I did have them I wouldn't call. I don't want them to die too, or get taken by her.
Page 59, line 28 is, "'consider the secret of my name!'" The book's called Song at the Scaffold and it looks creepy as fuck. The drawing on the front has this crazy-looking nun with a bunch of other nuns lined up at the guillotine.
I don't know what to do.  "Consider the secret of my name," like fuck I will. Like fuck I was born for this, or maybe I was. Maybe I was, maybe my dad was born to be killed and my mom was born to be taken over by a monster.
JESUS FUCK I'M GETTING A BRAIN MELTDOWN AGAIN. I can tell by which part of my head hurts, they fluctuate from the front to the back to the sides as different thoughts run through my head, and I can't escape my birthright I can't escape my place
There is nowhere to run. There is nowhere to hide. My name was written down before I took my first breath, my master trained me since before I took my first step
Guys, please, has anyone ever experienced this before? I have all these thoughts they hurt and they won't stop even if I write them down and try to get them out. Sometimes when I was little I would get horrible headaches and they wouldn't stop until I wrote down my thoughts. I had notebooks full but my mom threw them out and I don't remember what the thoughts were.
It hurts so much and it's not stopping. I want to sleep so bad, I just want to sleep and forget and maybe I won't wake up.