I'm afraid that I'm quite sick. I cannot breathe properly. Every time I go outside, hopeful that fresh Vermont air will clear my lungs of poison and clear my mind of whatever is analogous to poisoned air, I find myself gasping for a proper breath. I am woozy and floating around in a world that is not really my own. I feel like an awkward caricature, stuck in a story that I don't belong in. Harry Potter on his way to Mordor or something far worse, for at least Harry is a worthy protagonist in any tale.
I wonder about whatever is rendering me so detached from my environment. I know I should be happy. I ditched the pills days ago and everything seemed fine. The green plastic bottle remained burrowed in a box as I slept on the floor of what-could-have-been, disgusted with myself, yet proud at being able to smile without dependence on small pills. I told myself that I needed to be there, falling asleep to his loud breathing and the addictive energy of a calmer soul than my own. I needed to hide from what I am afraid of - being unloved and uncared for.
I'm fine. I can do this. I am happy. I don't need...
Were those all lies? Do I lack self-reliance? Am I powerless against sadness, destined to be crippled by it forever and ever? I wonder if I could really allow sadness to take over me permanently, chasing away the flesh and blood boys dying to be in my bed, dying to wrap their arms around me, hoping that I can return affection that has gone suppressed for so long. But I am so gloriously empty. I've always craved empty. Even when I've stared into the eyes of beautiful, beautiful men and told them how I felt, I've realized my words were a mistake. I can feel nothing for them. Sometimes, I can convince myself that I love a boy, but after a while I am able to see through my own deceptive attempts to be like other girls.
I force myself to care about other people, but I exist only to justify manipulating others by claiming that I've been hurt oh-so-many times. Misogyny has made me this way. Men are scum. Men are assholes. I hate them. I hate them. I hate them. Self-loathing has a fascinating way of manifesting in my pretty little head.
I see the way he looks at me. As stupid and childish as I am, I've been around long enough to know what those looks mean. I've been cat called on the street since I first began secondary school, a full two years younger than all the other people in my grade. I know what boys want. I know what I should want too.
I am not sure of when I first wanted to kiss him. But when I did kiss him, it surprisingly felt right. Although I was trembling in his arms, nervous because I'm not supposed to be happy,and I deserve nothing good, I knew I was where I was supposed to be.
He lay next to me. My head rested on his chest, heavy and guilty, listening to his heartbeat, anything but calm. Words upon words. I cannot answer any of his questions. I am the beautiful girl who doesn't know what to say. I am the beautiful girl whose head is flushed with images of other people, people who I wasted time on and I feel so stupid. What did I want from other boys? What do I want from you? What do you want from me? I'm scared and terrified because emotions are something I file away neatly and store in the back of my mind, only to be brought to the surface by some pretty blue-eyed fool and four shots of cold vodka washing down with the intent to destroy my façade. What do I think? How do I feel? I feel nothing. Nothing. Not a damn thing. And then I wish I'd had my little yellow pills to help me feel something correct for a change. I'm stupid, always feeling and saying the wrong things. The only thing I'm good for is shedding layers of clothing, letting you put your hands where you want to put them, resting my head on your chest, staying still and quiet and holding on tight to an abstract concept of an emotionally detached self.
I can't maintain my image. I can't be detached forever. I want to close myself off to being hurt because it has become too normal for me. But I like you. I don't do L-words very well, but I feel safe using that one. I feel safe around you. That is rare. You are rare. But I am silently destructive and my biggest fear is that I will ruin you. Everything I touch goes to hell. Perfect boys with perfect minds become selfish devils. Nice girls with good intentions and soft hearts become sniveling brats bent on some love that will never happen. The worst part of all this is, even if I want you, I know that it is selfish. I know that I should push you away now before you find out that I'm nothing but an overly dramatic girl reliant on little yellow pills to keep her away from death and darkness.
I wonder about whatever is rendering me so detached from my environment. I know I should be happy. I ditched the pills days ago and everything seemed fine. The green plastic bottle remained burrowed in a box as I slept on the floor of what-could-have-been, disgusted with myself, yet proud at being able to smile without dependence on small pills. I told myself that I needed to be there, falling asleep to his loud breathing and the addictive energy of a calmer soul than my own. I needed to hide from what I am afraid of - being unloved and uncared for.
I'm fine. I can do this. I am happy. I don't need...
Were those all lies? Do I lack self-reliance? Am I powerless against sadness, destined to be crippled by it forever and ever? I wonder if I could really allow sadness to take over me permanently, chasing away the flesh and blood boys dying to be in my bed, dying to wrap their arms around me, hoping that I can return affection that has gone suppressed for so long. But I am so gloriously empty. I've always craved empty. Even when I've stared into the eyes of beautiful, beautiful men and told them how I felt, I've realized my words were a mistake. I can feel nothing for them. Sometimes, I can convince myself that I love a boy, but after a while I am able to see through my own deceptive attempts to be like other girls.
I force myself to care about other people, but I exist only to justify manipulating others by claiming that I've been hurt oh-so-many times. Misogyny has made me this way. Men are scum. Men are assholes. I hate them. I hate them. I hate them. Self-loathing has a fascinating way of manifesting in my pretty little head.
I see the way he looks at me. As stupid and childish as I am, I've been around long enough to know what those looks mean. I've been cat called on the street since I first began secondary school, a full two years younger than all the other people in my grade. I know what boys want. I know what I should want too.
I am not sure of when I first wanted to kiss him. But when I did kiss him, it surprisingly felt right. Although I was trembling in his arms, nervous because I'm not supposed to be happy,and I deserve nothing good, I knew I was where I was supposed to be.
He lay next to me. My head rested on his chest, heavy and guilty, listening to his heartbeat, anything but calm. Words upon words. I cannot answer any of his questions. I am the beautiful girl who doesn't know what to say. I am the beautiful girl whose head is flushed with images of other people, people who I wasted time on and I feel so stupid. What did I want from other boys? What do I want from you? What do you want from me? I'm scared and terrified because emotions are something I file away neatly and store in the back of my mind, only to be brought to the surface by some pretty blue-eyed fool and four shots of cold vodka washing down with the intent to destroy my façade. What do I think? How do I feel? I feel nothing. Nothing. Not a damn thing. And then I wish I'd had my little yellow pills to help me feel something correct for a change. I'm stupid, always feeling and saying the wrong things. The only thing I'm good for is shedding layers of clothing, letting you put your hands where you want to put them, resting my head on your chest, staying still and quiet and holding on tight to an abstract concept of an emotionally detached self.
I can't maintain my image. I can't be detached forever. I want to close myself off to being hurt because it has become too normal for me. But I like you. I don't do L-words very well, but I feel safe using that one. I feel safe around you. That is rare. You are rare. But I am silently destructive and my biggest fear is that I will ruin you. Everything I touch goes to hell. Perfect boys with perfect minds become selfish devils. Nice girls with good intentions and soft hearts become sniveling brats bent on some love that will never happen. The worst part of all this is, even if I want you, I know that it is selfish. I know that I should push you away now before you find out that I'm nothing but an overly dramatic girl reliant on little yellow pills to keep her away from death and darkness.
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