Yes. I like looking completely hideous; I do it for a living. And yes. I know everything I say never comes out the way you think I meant it too, but I know exactly what I’m saying. Of course! I intend on spending my life alone. You think I actually want real friends?!
Maybe if I keep up the lying, I’ll actually mean it for once.
Have you ever been called beautiful before? [or handsome…] Didn’t it just put a smile on your face to think someone actually found you attractive? And wasn’t it even better because you knew they meant it? Well, I don’t know how it feels. I don’t know how it feels to be found attractive.
Because I never will be. Will there ever be a day when someone will say, “you know, you’re really pretty”? Just once. So maybe, for that one moment, I won’t have to look at myself with disgust. I just feel like purging my stomach of all its sins. Maybe then you’ll call me beautiful. Maybe then people will want to talk to me. Maybe everything will get better.
I always try to sound clever. Somehow it always comes out as something utterly idiotic. I hate that the words I always plan in my head never come out the way I wished they would. I stumble over my words and that just ends in convincing myself not to try the whole “speaking thing” again. Maybe that’s just what I should do. Just stop speaking for once. I could try the whole “don’t talk without being spoken to” thing. Besides, when did people actually appreciate my opinion as they do everyone else’s. I’m that litte piece of the crystal that gets chipped away when the crystal becomes a jem. I just want to be wanted. Would you listen to me for a second? Hear my stories and insecurities? Tell me that I’m not the only one that so desperately needs a hole to die in ASAP. Is that all I deserve? A death secluded from everyone. My greatest fear to die alone and be forgotten like every nobody you pass on the street.
I want to be more to you. Not just that little girl that bumps into you on the street because she was too busy looking into the sky. I’ve got dreams, I want to be something. Send me my revolution on first class please. I’ve got a stamp and a cardboard box as big as you need. Mail me someone’s heart and I’d give them mine. If you lost your soul mate, I could be yours. I’d swear my life to you. My life wouldn’t exist without you; you could be my everything. But do you want me? Will you want me?
I’m falling apart like snowflakes melting upon the eyelashes of the girl you love; the girl I wish I was. Could I be her is you never saw me again?
This gamble of life and love is a risk we’re all willing to take.