untitled

I wish I knew how to control myself.  I fear that I will never learn from my mistakes and my past actions, always circling back to the same poor choices—like a child trapped on a merry-go-round, watching everyone they love fade into the distance as the ride spins on. Their eyes fill with tears, pleading for someone, anyone, to stop the endless turning– to get them off of the torture machine. They’re spiraling out of control, calling for help as the world blurs, yet no one reaches out to save them. 

When I think about things like that, I mentally slap myself for being so morbid. Jesus, this is why no one likes to talk to you! You’re so fucking weird!

Maybe I am weird. But honestly, I think that I’m the realest person out here. Everyone else hides behind cardboard masks—flimsy, falling apart at the first sign of rain or wind. I, on the other hand, wear a ceramic mask. It’s sturdy against the weather, strong enough to endure. Sure, it cracks under pressure, and those cracks make me stand out. But it’s real, just like me, and it’s the only thing that makes me feel safe in my own skin.

I obsess over things that probably don’t even matter. Why should I care if I'm strange, if no one even bothers to understand me? Maybe it’s better to just stay quiet, blend in, and pretend to be normal.