I’m so fucked up.
If you met me in person you wouldn’t know me. If you knew me in real life you wouldn’t like me.
For some reason he sticks around, but really, why?
Everything is all about me, no matter what.
I’m vain in a “well I used to look like this” sort of way. I’m continually disheveled yet …
Modesty. I’m all about modesty now. I have this fear of being “found out” – ugly, fat, queer, liberal. So I shift my blouse back on my shoulders, covering up any potential cleavage. “There, now I’m straight.” You can’t see my skin and tear it apart. It’s sensitive, much like the sinew and bloody mess it’s attached to.
I was constantly berated and degraded in school, and now those ghostly demons live on in my mind.
Back then I was too skinny. I had bruises on my back from my spine rubbing against my skin. I was still healthy, though. I ate whatever I wanted. I was able to lose myself in books and nature, in a way that I can’t anymore. It all changed somewhere around year twelve or thirteen. That’s when my innocence was lost, and that’s when I was first clinically diagnosed.
The sassier side arises later, around sixteen, when I am hospitalized for being a rebellious youth.
I envy myself. That girl. She was perfect. [“Look what you’ve done, you fucking bitch.”] I ‘could have had it all’… ::song plays briefly in head::
I’ve had so many opportunities to reach my own personal nirvana. Perhaps that’s why I’ve tried to kill myself so many times, an attempt to end it at the highest points. I wonder now if I’ll ever become famous, ever be able to write again, to be myself again, or even, just to laugh again.
There’s so much in here, if I could just string it out, lace it into letters, felt it into words.
I make stuff, ya know. No lace, or felt, not yet anyway, but I’m not far away from learning how to tat. Macrame is both soothing and frustrating. I even sell stuff sometimes. It makes me feel a little bit better about myself.
I guess that’s it for now. Cats happened.