Who wants to know you. Every part of you is worthless. If anyone had the ability to see through your halfhearted facade they wouldn’t fucking come near you. There’s nothing stimulating about your presence. There isn’t anything favorable about you. No one wants to spend one second with you. You’re worthless. You’re full of detestable, insignificant personality traits coupled with humiliating social ineptitude. You’re so stupid. You think you have the right to care about anyone. They hate you. They know something is wrong with you. You aren’t even something to look at. Your face is unmistakably offensive. A little makeup doesn’t fool anyone. No one cares what you’re saying; what could you possibly convey that would be important? Your ‘friends’ don’t ask you to come out because of genuine need or want. You’re a time filler. You’re hungry? Do you think anyone wants to look at you any more than they do now if you have a grotesque vessel? Do you?
You want to be held? “It’s okay”? It’s not fucking okay. How could you want something so selfish. You don’t deserve something like that. You stop fucking crying. You look ridiculous. You sound ridiculous. Shut up. Just shut up.
You’re a nuisance.
An eyesore.
SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION. SELF-MUTILATION.
I just want so badly… to convey.
Everything.
Vers vous.
AND IF I WERE TO ATTEMPT TO CONFIDE IN ANY OF THEM THEIR REACTIONS WOULD BE INSINCERE AND EFFUSIVE AND FILLED WITH FUCKING PITY AND FEAR.
I’m moving out within the next few months.
When I think about being happy, I’m bored. When people talk about being happy it usually involves constant positivity. And being happy for people seems to be, well, staying happy. I don’t think I can function that way. I think if I was going to be content I would need to continue to suffer in some way. I can’t stand the thought of constantly being ‘happy’. It makes me sick. I don’t desire to be ‘happy’. For me to be happy, no. For me to be content with myself I have to have some form of turmoil for periods of time. I have to be ‘unhappy’ in some way to want to continue doing things. Without emotional turmoil or physical abuse in some way I really don’t think I can stand all of this monotony.
Everyone’s predictability is one of the causes of my avoidance.
Don’t fucking touch me. I’ll kill you from the inside.
Je veux passer du temps avec vous.
