You have permission to evacuate my thoughts. Let me get on with my life without personifying my imaginations caricature of self doubt.
Let me breathe without being suffocated. Allow me to feel without insecurity.
Why do I worry so much about things beyond my control? Why do I let ghosts of decaying feelings wrap their resurrected claws around my potential for happiness.
My heart is ripped apart and bloodied. I feel as if I am clutching it in my bare hands, unaware of whether or not I am alive except for my faint memory of what a heartbeat sounds like and what it means to feel attached.
I don't think I can feel it anymore. I want to be optimistic about a future with you. I barely know you, but your continuing interest in me perplexes and frightens me. It awakens my instinct to hide, to reveal too much or worse, to force every negative aspect of myself upon you.
This is not what I am accustomed to. Of course, in the Caribbean, men are different. But their interest in me is superficial, causing my interest in them to be nonexistent because looks mean nothing to me, no matter how badly I want them to. (If looks meant something to me, every freshman year disappointment could have been avoided because I am definitively more attractive than any of the people I liked.) Someone interested in who I am is new. Boys aren't supposed to care about that. I talk too much, try to hard, behave aggressively, scream, panic, cry, complain, and essentially embody the opposite of perfection.
I am the antithesis to normal. I take strange and launch it to the moon. You would think that I would enjoy someone actually being interested in me for a change instead of the other way around. But I am terrified and suspicious. I want to crawl back to my old self deprecating habits of being utterly devoted to the emotionally cold.
Ah, but I know that I can't permit that to happen. I believe in my own value as a person: physically and emotionally. I must say no to self destruction. I must say no to bitter and pale vampires that suck out my ambition and my drive to improve my self esteem.
I am angry with the world, and rightfully so. I am capable of such powerful and inherently good emotions that have constantly been abused. I can't help but feel that it is time to do some abuse of my own. It is time for me to be the aloof and emotionless victim of a poor souls affliction with affection. I can play the elusive vixen. I can be indifferent and unappreciative of love.
To hell with ethics. What has ethical thinking ever done for me? I kiss my obedience to impulse good bye and enter a world of cruel logical calculations and a masculine approach towards relationships: no one is worthy. No one is good enough. No one will get through to me.
It is possible for me to change my mind, but I refuse to return to my naive assumption that men are different. Every time sugared words cross their poisoned lips, my heart cracked a little to ooze out a bit of my pessimism. No more. My heart is shut tight. Good luck getting in.
Let me breathe without being suffocated. Allow me to feel without insecurity.
Why do I worry so much about things beyond my control? Why do I let ghosts of decaying feelings wrap their resurrected claws around my potential for happiness.
My heart is ripped apart and bloodied. I feel as if I am clutching it in my bare hands, unaware of whether or not I am alive except for my faint memory of what a heartbeat sounds like and what it means to feel attached.
I don't think I can feel it anymore. I want to be optimistic about a future with you. I barely know you, but your continuing interest in me perplexes and frightens me. It awakens my instinct to hide, to reveal too much or worse, to force every negative aspect of myself upon you.
This is not what I am accustomed to. Of course, in the Caribbean, men are different. But their interest in me is superficial, causing my interest in them to be nonexistent because looks mean nothing to me, no matter how badly I want them to. (If looks meant something to me, every freshman year disappointment could have been avoided because I am definitively more attractive than any of the people I liked.) Someone interested in who I am is new. Boys aren't supposed to care about that. I talk too much, try to hard, behave aggressively, scream, panic, cry, complain, and essentially embody the opposite of perfection.
I am the antithesis to normal. I take strange and launch it to the moon. You would think that I would enjoy someone actually being interested in me for a change instead of the other way around. But I am terrified and suspicious. I want to crawl back to my old self deprecating habits of being utterly devoted to the emotionally cold.
Ah, but I know that I can't permit that to happen. I believe in my own value as a person: physically and emotionally. I must say no to self destruction. I must say no to bitter and pale vampires that suck out my ambition and my drive to improve my self esteem.
I am angry with the world, and rightfully so. I am capable of such powerful and inherently good emotions that have constantly been abused. I can't help but feel that it is time to do some abuse of my own. It is time for me to be the aloof and emotionless victim of a poor souls affliction with affection. I can play the elusive vixen. I can be indifferent and unappreciative of love.
To hell with ethics. What has ethical thinking ever done for me? I kiss my obedience to impulse good bye and enter a world of cruel logical calculations and a masculine approach towards relationships: no one is worthy. No one is good enough. No one will get through to me.
It is possible for me to change my mind, but I refuse to return to my naive assumption that men are different. Every time sugared words cross their poisoned lips, my heart cracked a little to ooze out a bit of my pessimism. No more. My heart is shut tight. Good luck getting in.
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