Am I beautiful? Is there any need to be beautiful, do I even want to be? Beauty is fleeting, it dies as soon as it comes. It's an affliction, not a terrible one but an affliction none the less. I can feel their hands on me, their lips, teeth, kiss. My mum thinks I'm beautiful, her friends say I'm beautiful, but do I ever really feel it? Not when I undress, when I kiss, when I love. All attempts to feel beautiful, addictions I cannot shake, called affliction. Beauty is sad. Beautiful people are sad. It's taken nineteen years to realise that everyone's sad sometimes, some more than others yet all trapped in our own minds. Some lick bags to escape, crystalline palaces promising confidence and allure. The shame is grotesque. I don't like anything about myself, honestly. I'm so fucking lonely, so fucking beautiful, so fucking used. Everything I do is a distraction from how I really feel. Empty and alone. I don't know how I'll make it past 25. I don't know if I want to. I have no sense of belonging and never have. I ruin every relationship I've ever had with anyone, I just can't help it, it's just me. My real reality has turned into my perceived one. Most people feel like they're meant to be somewhere, feel loved and accepted. I don't feel anywhere. I don't exist.
Paranoia, despair are all I ever feel. Euphoria grandiose delusions all that come. I cum because im fucking insane. Physically, I can't feel love for anyone i don't think love exists. All I ever do is make myself feel better because already I feel like they hate me. This is deeper than a bit of procrastination.
I don't know how I can avoid this feeling of ultimate despair, this feeling I feel constantly. As I look into this boys eyes, I feel whole, true. Why is it that I only feel seen when looking at another, gazing into the eyes of a man, like a child cradled in his arms. I am never more happy than when I am nestled in the arms of a boy, tears dripping down my cheeks, held like I once was.
And so I wept.
I wept and wept.
'Are you in love?' He asked.
'Yes.' I said, tears streaming down my face, the weight of the world on my shoulders, friendless and alone.
So he left. Left me alone in my tiny box room, weeping at six in the morning, for a boy I could never have. I savoured the taste of his lips on mine, his sweet kiss goodbye; and let myself be taken by oblivion, down the perilous path of psychosis and psychotomy. Remembering his yellow curls in my hands, slipping through my fingers as he left, with a forlorn glance, his pity burning my insides, twisting the void. In that moment, I felt I could never be happy again. And truly, I feel I haven't. It wasn't really about him. It never had been. This hole inside me could not be filled by booze, boys, packets and ecstasy, I felt it never could be filled. This darkness inside me, a void never to be quelled, I felt It then more than I ever had before. So I wept, for the girl I had once been, for the girl I longed to be but never could, for my family, for my future; for my first case of unrequited love. I vowed to never feel this again, to never open myself up to another, never allow myself to be hurt in the same way.
I was in love, but really it wasn't about him. He could have been anyone, a mess of private school bravado and a head of yellow hair. But no really, he could have been anyone. The tears flowed further. I couldn't piece myself together, couldn't compose myself. I had prided myself on taking this boy, lorded over him being mine. I don't know if I could really feel love. I don't know if the perfect accessory would be a better way to describe him; a method of self preservation. I could feel myself falling apart, so latched on to the only thing in my life that gave me some sense of accomplishment, some sense of autonomy. Boys were objects, a way for me to exert power over someone, feel better about myself. I don't know if I truly ever wanted him, completely. Don't know If I wanted the dates, the time spent. Was it all really a game to me? Why had I let my feelings get so involved, if truly, he was a pawn? But the truth was, I was unwell, so so unwell. I had let myself succumb, again, to the urge to be held by another, someone I held in high regard. I wanted to win his love, win his approval, but I couldn't. It seemed that I, again, was the problem. I was iller, more attached, more depressed, more insane; and he was not. It was at this point I realised why I was weeping; weeping for normality. Feeling worse off, chemically compromised. It was a sick love game, but I was worse.
It was six am, the birds sounded in the distance, calling to their mates, their lovers. They seemed better off than me, unfazed by the mess that unfolds below, unbothered by reality's randomness. They need not concern themselves with life, a job, a career, television. Electrical tin openers, good health low cholesterol; dental insurance, fucking HIGH STANDARDS; friends, leisurewear; matching luggage; 3-piece suites and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. All things that concerned one race, humanity. Stuffing, cold almonds into your mouth in a four walled prison, rotting away at the end of it all, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish fucked up world of yours and my own creation.
I'm a neurotic egomaniac, with psychopathic tendencies, SEVERE daddy issues, obsessive compulsive narcissist who's frequently regressive, sexual anatomically created coping mechanisms oftentimes variate between the deranged, bizarre; thematic, somatised, pessimistic and ultimately depressive. Supposedly it's the paranoia of the time.
I am someone who oftentimes feels deeply ashamed, belittled, depressed; so chooses instead to passively withdraw from LIFE and the future. Any future. I'm twenty. These 'devious' tendencies to fib, lie and steal spawning from a theorised lifetime of neglect that: in most 'normal' people's lives (polite society) is truly, utterly: of my own making.
Sex, drugs, life- if this was high society I didn't want to see low. His lips on mine, the stillness of our mouths, sharing his tongue was like an extension of the love I craved. This world was mine, of my own making. He shared my misery, intertwined beings, meshed together by fragrant attachments. Stupid little cigarettes shared like a needle, metamorphosised life's fleeting grasp. Inhale. Exhale. Our beings enmeshed, his tongue an extension of the love I craved.
It was us, and us alone. My brown curls holding his yellow, my tongue on his neck, his back. But it wasn't enough. He couldn't be mine, didn't want to be. It was this that hurt the most. There was nothing I could do to make him want me. My looks alone did not suffice. Not music taste, mannerisms, money. This was a desire unrequited. Why can't somebody love me? Fuck me? Please. But he didn't.
