I hate this anethsitization of feeling. Honesty is tempting, but too hard, with all these sides constricting anything that I thought was good once. I can't figure; am I being ungrateful or doing something right for once? What, is written on the screwed up ball of paper in my hand, so far away and easy to get rid of, closed cup fingers and goodbye. Accidental scratches, and renewed lust/longing/whatever, but damned inconvinient for everyone else. It's terrible, just I don't want to be you and I don't want to do it your way. And without that, I'm a little short-sighted as to what there is left. I'm desparate, immature and pissing you all off. Thank God for being upset again. At least there actually is something somewhere here.
I can't understand. Do I have to feel used to feel worth something?
It feels like it. Icon of self-indulgence, abhorrent but almost appropriate. I'd give up now if I were you. This time, different. All I have to figure out is some kind of self restraint and some kind of facade that doesn't make me sick with hate, like I could stick fingers down my throat to get rid of this, and I wish I still could. Hate is more alive than any of this sickeningly placid, mediocre love. Not hate, always, always disappointment. Maybe this will end, but it has to end my way, on my terms. I can't finish this now, not for you. Too much love and little.

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

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