Air Conditioning

I'm sorry.

I hate feeling stagnant,

Yet sometimes I hate moving,

But what I hate most is being reminded of my sheer existence.

I am a person on this planet that other people see,

That other people are affected by,

And I wasn't given that choice.

It makes me want to cry, thinking about how many people I've hurt by just being me, letting myself be myself, just by existing,

And it still hurts every time I hear people say they love me before the rush of a closed door,

And I have to just suck it up and know that's all I am. An object of romance.

And I have a platonic friend now, truly platonic, and yet I feel the urge to flirt?

And I hate that.

Why is it that I can't just be a normal person?

I live in the back of more than one person's mind, a forbidden whisper of affections that should have long since ceased.

And I hate it.

I find the feeling of being wanted in that way simultaneously sickening and enjoyable, and I just wish I didn't.

I wish the thought of people other than my forever finding me attractive made me sick and not nauseated-yet-proud,

Because it is just the fact that I enjoy the attention that makes me sick with self hatred.

The sickness has won out more than anything else lately though. That makes it easier.

I will never not wish I had never been born,

But I wasn't given that choice,

And now I've affected so many lives that me leaving isn't an option.

It makes me miserable to think about the marks I've left on people, because the bad will always far outweigh the good in my mind,

Because what's a passed math class to a heartbreak,

And what's a workout partner to years of heartache,

And what's a lover to a...

I hate it. I hate myself.

But now really I'm just wallowing,

When all I want to say is I'm sorry.