Patton was here today.

He made me happy.

Roman gave me an apology.

Why do I still love him?

He's hurt me so many times, and yet I love him even more.

It hurt so much, seeing the words I needed. It hurt to be happy.

Because something in my head knows it's only temporary.

I've seen Roman's demon, and it will never leave him because it is him.

He was so afraid to be his brother that he became something worse.

But I love him. Even as my brain knows that I'll only get hurt, I hold on.

The pain keeps me whole.

It lets me know I'm still alive.

And I don't think you can just stop loving someone.

If I could've, I would've.

This isn't good. It isn't healthy to continue clinging to something that should've died a long time ago, and I should let go.

But my heart will never stop holding onto him.

His demon can bring out my own. And my demon loves his, just as surely as I do.

We cling onto the last strand of life we have.

And that is my love for Roman.

Patton's fatherly love couldn't be enough to sustain us, because my demon can't find one in Patton.

He just finds the cracks. The holes that Patton falls through.

But me and my demon know that we can't fix them.

We're all screwed, so we just keep loving Roman.

I like my demon.

He says interesting things, and I don't want to live without him.

He's my safety, and he keeps me alive.

He lets me see the world in a new way, and I'm not sure I want to lose that.

He helps me, and he hurts me.

It's a nice balance, and I don't know how to live without being broken.

I can't continue like this. My demon loves the pain. It keeps it safe, but it kills me slowly.

My demon has the weirdest love of pain.

(not in a kinky way, I'm looking at you, Remus)

And so I hurt myself, I let the pain become a part of me, and I no longer know how to live without pain.

Suffering is a fact of life, but it has become my life recently.

I'm not leaving my room again.

Patton hated the way I looked, the sleeplessness, the slight malnutrition, the obvious stress.

But I revel in it.

The circles under my eyes, the way I can no longer pinch my sides, it fills me with... not pleasure or happiness, but more satisfaction and contentment. It makes my demon happy.

He likes me being happy.

My demon isn't inherently bad, it just has some weird tendencies.

It likes to make me feel better about myself, like when I see the circles under my eyes and the number on the scale.

It helps me survive, unlike Roman's.

Roman's likes to separate him from us, hurt us, and in doing so, it keeps Roman "safe".

After all, we can't hurt him if we don't talk to him.

Roman hates his demon. I can't blame him. His is vicious. Mine actually cares about me.

Maybe there are no demons.

Maybe it's just us, rationalizing the worst parts of us in a way that we can bear.

Because we all want to think we are good people.

And maybe Roman's demon only exists in my mind, a way for me to rationalize the person who hurt me vs. the person I love.

Maybe his demon is him.

My demon is me, at least in part.

I like the pain. I really do.

I don't know why.

Why is the question they always ask. Why do I enjoy this? Why do I do it?

The answer is that I don't know.

I'm not sure why I like the pain, just that I do.

And part of me hates it.

I hate loving the pain, as much as I hate hating the pain.

I hate the pain, and I love that I hate the pain.

I hate that I love hating the pain.

It may not make sense, but the cycle just repeats in my brain.

Love and hate, swirled together until you can hardly tell the difference.

Somehow, it is easier to accept hating yourself than loving yourself.

It sounds so easy, just loving yourself.

A lot of people do it, and it is easy.

But it's never easy for me.

I hate the part of me that loves myself.

I hate loving myself, and that makes it so much harder to love myself.

My demon agrees.

It sees the truth, most of the time.

I see the truth, most of the time.

But I can't bear it sometimes.

So I tuck it into a seperate part, rationalizing it as my 'demon', or as my 'disease'. But where is the line between us and our demons?

How do we tell if we are human?

Why were we created this way? Human and monster mixed to the point of pain?

Maybe that's why I'll never believe in god. Because if there's a god up there, one who created us, why did he include greed?

Why did he include hate?

Why did he include so much negative?

If he could create anything, why would he create so many broken things, beyond hope of repair?

Why did he make a race of monsters, instead of angels?

Everyone says that we can fix things, that he made us this way for a reason.

But what is that reason?

Why are we here to feel pain?

Why, out of all the impossible things that happened to make this moment possible, why did this moment get made?

If there is a divine force out there, they must have messed up.

All we are is a race of self-destructive monsters in a dying planet.

It's not just me that's a disease.

It's the whole human race.

We kill everything we touch, and yet we yearn for even more to destroy.

We create, and the things we create save us.

And then they kill us.

And we still believe we are in the right, intoxicated by our brains and demons.

Intoxicated by ourselves.

Somehow, underneath it all, I believe I am a good person.

I justify my actions, even the ones that shouldn't be justified.

And I hate and love myself for it.

We are a toxic mix that feeds on our own deaths.

I stand here, on the edge of death.

I look into the void.

There is nothing ahead.

We are floating on a rock in space, one that will die.

And then it will all be for nothing.

We have tried to be something for so long, only to end up back where we started.

Everything we have died for, dreamed for, lived for, will all be gone.

And there will be nothing to show for it.

Nothing lasts, and nothing will survive the end.

What's the point in still trying?

We'll never advance in a way that matters.

If we're lucky, we'll end up as a grease spot.

If we're not, we'll just be nothing.

Maybe that's how we should have stayed.

For we have suffered for millennia. And we have done it for nothing.