October 15, 2008

I haven't been able to bring myself to write the past few days, only because the same words keep being said over in my head and I'm scared that if I wrote them down, they'd end up being true. So, I guess I just won't write anything about that. Phil got me to write today, because he could tell I was stressed and needed to.

Since the trial, I haven't been able to bring myself to sleep. Whether I'm too scared, or just too guilty, or both, I just can't. Phil joked about slipping a sleeping pill in my coffee, but he wouldn't do that because I think he understands. But for some odd reason, he hasn't been visiting me as much since the trial. Not even long enough to play a game of 21 or some poker with the guard outside my door like usual. I think something's wrong, and when I say that, I mean more wrong than usual. It's really bothering me, like maybe he's starting to believe the things I've been telling him from day one. I don't want him to, I really don't. I haven't asked him because I'm afraid of his answer. I don't want to know if it is really me.

I haven't even been able to write any poems, lately and that just irks me to the core. I just want to write but my head is so jumbled and messed up that everything I want to say is blurred together and nothing comes out. All I can actually do is sleep (which I can't bring myself to) because they won't even let me near a TV or a radio. So I don't even have any music. I literally stare at a wall or just lay in my bed and look up. I already said how Phil has been unusually distant. At this moment, I almost think prison would be a better place. Here, I can't even walk out of the room, and I only have a skylight to see outside. Maybe I'll try and talk to Phil about maybe letting me out for a bit, because I swear I'm going to go insane.

I remember the first day I started writing in this thing. I can't believe it's already been two years. I started writing because I was scared, I didn't want something to happen to me and for people to believe I died as a...well, not a good person. That's all I want. If I were to go, make this a book or just something because I just want people to know the truth. My side of the story, the part they don't put in the newspaper or on TV. Really, at this point, I could care less what happened to me. The only reason I've been eating the food they give me is because I'd rather not have a tube shoved down my throat.