Monologues of the mind

Alone

People sometimes ask me "why are you alone?" or "don't you have any friends?" 

Do inanimate objects count? Because my rum bottle and I hang out a lot.
But friends...like real friends, who you don't constantly feel anxious and paranoid around, because you think they might actually hate you?
"Why not", I think.
"I mean, others have more to offer them, you're just a broken, manipulative mess, that causes only sadness and negativity"

So no, but that's my fault.
I'm broken.
I'm unfixable.
I'm me.
And I push people away.
Even if I do it subconsciously, without a second thought. Because under all the shattered shards of my latest attempt to piece back my heart, is a nice person.
A person who wants to help.
A person who wants to do good.
And the only way I can do that anymore is by pushing people away, before they get close enough to befriend the excuse of an existence that I am.

Back to walking by myself, whilst the cool, crisp winter air freezes it's way down to my cold heart.
Back to sitting in the same single, unwanted seat on the train, next to the toilets, where athletic people put their bikes, or happy families put their baby's pram; not for depressed teenagers, discarded by her friends, who would rather be anywhere else.
Back to isolating myself from the world, from the people I care for, from life. Well it wasn't ever that nice to me anyway.
Back to dealing with problems by myself, and not letting someone else delve into them, like one of Sherlock's patients; or a snobby teacher, who took a half an hour course in "feelings" so is qualified to give their unprofessional opinion on why you're crying your eyes out, with slits up your arm in the girl's toilets.

Back to the old me.