I can't figure out what it is to be always pushing poeple away. I don't want to, but I am losing everything. I'm losing any semblance of control. I'm a control freak. But I need to be loved, just like everyone else. And everyone has someone who makes them smile. Because, no one's prepared to make me smile. And I can't seem to function like this, it physically hurts, because I have no purpose.
I'd be happy for someone to take advantage of it, even that. But no one wants me. I want to inspire someone.
Looking at scars makes me happy. Why? Because I have something no one else has. I can see inside myself. I'm damaging myself. I'm making pretty patterns, drawing dagggers on something perfect and white, draining away the fat. But I know myself better than most of these.
That doesn't matter. It was a perfectly calm proposal and it made me feel like there was a way out, and I liked it. English has never been so interesting. I thought about it, decided it wasn't completely practical. Not to do today at least. The idea made me smile. But I can't want it that much, can I?
Perhaps this is meant to mean something, all this? I don't know.
It makes me smile, because I'm wrapping up inside myself again. It's the only place I'm safe and I won't get rejected. That's why I've hidden it all away, it's why I'm running away. Because I can sense something of abandonment; I just have to get out of here before any confirmation. Because scarring is something that I can do all by myself, and it's so beautiful. That people hate it, perhaps that's a bonus, because it's mine and I know that I'm strong at least when I get to look at them, and when the blood is warm, shooting up my arm, heavy with the pain, blurring round the cut. And I might be crying, but I'm happy.
Maybe it's because I'm by myself. Other people make me unhappy because I'm disappointed. I have expectations that are far, far too high. I know, but I can't seem to do anything about it.Oh, and I want people to love me. That's why. People, person. Just one, one, like that. To be almost a part of me. But to actually care. And when I did have it, I didn't even realise. That's why I have to do something. I have to punish myself so I can start again. So I'll be clean and happy, so someone will want me again.
Like I said. I haven't got a purpose.
Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending: