You always know how to get the best of me
Even when I’m sure you’re not trying
Sometimes I think I know how this game’s played
But I’m just a girl out of luck
That just might be a little too good with masks
I worry about too many things and they make me insane
Those opinions always got the best of me
Trying to be a “good” person, but what’s “good” anymore?
How can you define perfect in this world so lacking?
But of course, there would be no love without hate
And no light without the dark background
I spent all my time trying to make you all proud of me
Who am I now?
You wrote a letter to me. So, this is your open letter to you. Maybe if I don’t speak your name, this won’t seem so impersonal. Maybe you’ll never read this; maybe no one ever does. But everything’s worth your best bet.
You said everything you write isn’t about me. Well, that shows how self-centered and solipsistic I am. But if I could maybe try to defend myself in some twisted way, I might just be able to explain. Sometimes I’m just trying to search for flaws, and like that painting you thought perfect until you saw DaVinci’s, comparison is my only way. I just hate feeling anything good about myself. Maybe it’s my twisted way of perfecting myself even more, though I’m not much of a perfectionist. Or just maybe it dates back to those skinny, little perfect ditzes from third grade mocking me for everything. For anything I did right the most. No matter how hard I try I can’t break my facade of saying that caring what other’s think is overrated. Well, I never said I’m not a hipocrite. I probably care more than anyone on this Earth what people think. I mean, that’s why I remember every single thing people say and dwell on it for longer than they even remember. It’s why I keep over-analyzing situations and what I say or type. Everything always says something bad about myself. That’s why I can’t stand an awkward silence, because I feel like everyone’s expecting me to say something. And then I do, and I sound like a complete idiot. Maybe I’m just paranoid and am more uncapable to hold a normal conversation without putting up a facade. I always seem to be faking. I’m not much of an interesting person, and that’s why I fake. And afterwards it’s one of those cliche scenes when I hit myself on the head, hating myself for not being able to just be me without caring. I’m just a coward in every way possible.
I’m just analyzing myself again now. I guess I do this more than I thought. Maybe that’s why I criticize everyone, why I’m worse than every single fucker on this Earth. Because I’m one of those girls I hate that has to hate others just to fit in. Because if I’m hating them and they’re hating them too I would finally feel like I have some solid ground to walk upon. I know, it’s not an excuse for being the horrible person I am. Sometimes I try to stop and I just end up feeling like another hopeless cause. Yeah, you probably see now why you shouldn’t be defending me. And it’s why I’ve stopped defending myself. Because they’re always right when they’re criticizing me. And even if they aren’t, at least they actually believe in what they say. I’m just a bad faker with some wannabe poetic words. They said I’m good with words, well, it’s more like the words that dance around me. So many “maybe”s I might just not want to take responsability for what I say. I hate it when everyone yells at me, because then there’s no more peace. Not even in my own head. I never seem to be at peace, I’m always trying to stay on my feet. Is that what makes me so boring? Some days I just sit on my bed listening to actual poetic words and stare out my window thinking, dreaming. I write those stupid, cliche stories to try and get away. Because I don’t have to be on my death bed. I can already hate my life as I look back on it.
You can ask for another chance, but I’m just asking not to take another chance on me.
“And it’s over, but it just started.
The blood stained the carpet.
Her heart like a crystal.
She’s lucid and departed.
A life left behind, she can find in her mind gone away.”