You know, Holly is the only person I'd accept that off. The only person that'd tell me, whatever.
I know I should stop caring about everything. It's harder than I thought, I don't know how everyone does it. Apart from when, I just want you to all fuck off, so I can be myselfishself.
But I hate myself for this, and wish I could be unseflish, like I'm supposed to and expected to be. I get too close, because I can't control any of this. How were you all able to escape from it so soon? All these foreign words skittering off my tongue, they don't mean anything to me, I can't hear them, I can't remember. No impression, she's not too bright/she's not all there. A ticker-tape of thoughts, streaming far too fast, she's easy to read but not to understand. Dancing out of my mouth, into your ear.
Out of curiousity, staying with these people I don't know, 'cause I don't want to disappoint you, that I care about, your face falling again is too much.
Because looking to hurt is almost addictive, but only me, not you. And I'm interested in it, in this new version of disdain for me, and turn it against itself, it's the only challenge I'm interested in right now. Everything's such a mess, all over the dining room table. And I've I spilled
everything all over this paper and these paper hearts, that were mine awhile. One more to take a picture of.
I can only asssume you agree.
It doesn't matter after all, I'm plucking out the feathers of something well worn and passed between everyone, I'm the last one to get it and I'm not letting go, I'm still a little girl and it's my shield from the world that's bigger than I am.
I'd forgotten what it was like, looking forward to break, or lunch because you knew that he'd be there, or him, or him, or her. And that they'd creep up behind you, fold their arms around you, just to make you smile. Just like I can't, because there's always some other important shit, to you or me. But I smile, because you are you. Stoically you and you carry on, doing those things that
made me smile a million years ago and they still do now. And I wish that I could fold you up in my arms, and make you smile and show you how much I love you, but all I can do is disappoint you. I wish, I wish, I wish that I could make you happy.
Meanwhile, it's easy to not care about the things I should do; college, work, weight and more working. Instead I wonder about whether I believe in God, how to describe how beautiful a
street is, how I can't work properly anymore, beginning to resent any criticism, or aching to improve for him, when I don't even like him yet. I know I've felt like this before, and last time, it worked. I have a lot of things to make it easier this time round, though it's only a matter of
perception. And the amount of things it's gained me aren't all that many. I don't think there could be anyone who sees my world. And, it's true, I can't tell what is reality and what isn't anymore, at least in that plane of subconcious or perception, inferred thoughts and feelings and too much emotion, which is perpetually my downfall. Because I make up events, and can't remember them, substitute what I want, what fits to me and momentary thinking, and I'm afraid, afraid that it isn't reality.
I don't think it is, there is everyone over there, telling me that this world is only inhabited by children. Children? Step back over the line, and wait your turn like everyone else. Oh, it is children. Children with pieces of glass, anyhow.
I really don't want to grow up, like you say, at least. I do, but not to any of that, because there has to be, there has to be another option. Everything that has happened these past weeks, I can't remember, it's a blur of empty time and nothing stands out, nothing and it's cutting you,
because I admit that it's cutting me. And you didn't want to know that, I should've grown up by now. At least pretend. I'm not sure I know how. But I'll try, because I don't want to be this selfish anymore.
It's like having your foundations kicked out from under you, no I don't respect you, you need to grow up. Because I've hung onto everything you said, and stuck up for you because I thought you loved me too, because I realised, too too late that you were a beautiful person, once upon a time, or maybe twice. Because I never thought you could hurt me like he did, although I see now that it is poetic justice, or not just poetic, moral and the only thing I deserve. But not that, I was too arrogant to expect it. This defect is me, inside me, part of me, I am defective. And determined to be me, just not to hurt any of you, but that's not allowed. And I'll learn that when, one day, it's been battered out of me, like you intend.

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

last * next