What Am I Doing

I'll do anything to get attention, but I hate it too.

This is what you're doing to me. You leave me with my desires, and I want to kill them. Why am I beautiful. I hate your glare, the perverse thoughts you put in my mind, it seeps into my gut and I am sick inside.

You tell me that I'm beautiful, but I hate being beautiful. You made me this way. You killed my beauty, you killed the laughter inside of me. You, strangled me and suffocated my beauty.

I draw on my face. Is that enough to show you how much I despise myself. To show you that I don't care, I don't give a damn about what you think about me, because who are you. I am me, I stick to myself because no one else gives a damn. They just wish they did. I can deform myself, this face, I hate it so much, make this sick desire go away. You hate me, and I love it. Keep it up. I love it.

Go on, tell me that you're sorry, that you like me. I just won't hear you out. I'd hate to disappoint you you know. Come on, let's see what else you have for me. Give it to me. What else are you hiding in your back pocket. Come one, give it to me.

This is it. It's nothing. It's everything and you make it everything, but it's not. Not even. Not at all. Nothing.

You make it such a big deal. It is, but it's crap. It's everything, inside, hiding, disguised, hurting, feeling, hurt.

You make it so. You make me feel inferior. You suck my powers, or is it my fear. You make me scared. Scared to show anything at all. You're dangerous. You really are. And it hurts. So bad.

Am I enough? Can you take that? Can you take me? Everything? Which is nothing? Am I enough? Can you handle this? Really? I don't think so. You'll always want more. You always want more. It's natural, it's always gonna be this way. You're always wanting more, and I don't think I can give it all to you. I have nothing, and yet I have one glimmer of hope that's something so small in a vacuum of abject darkness. Can you take that? Can you make it grow instead? I have it, inside of me. But you're scared too. And you make me scared too. And we all become scared.

But I hate this. I hate this beauty. But I want it. I want you.

That's it. There's nothing more. Can you handle that? Can you still love me for everything and the nothing that I am? I'm sure you can, I hope you can. I hope someone will.

Because it's useless. Why can't I show myself. Why do you have to be so sinful. Why is this world so dangerous. Why am I so scared. Why are you so vain? Why can't you be noble and strong and support me. You can, I know you can. But I haven't found you yet. Can you take me? All that I am, the ugly and the bright? Am I nothing? Am I everything? Am I enough? Am I good enough? I think I am, but then why is everyone telling me a different story? People are tricking me. My mind is in a continuous loop. Please help me. I want to be stable. I want to think, but I hate to be alone. I would hate to deny myself the glory that could be, the beauty that could be, the vanity that could kill me. If only I had will power, the strength, and the courage.

Fear is disgusting. I hate it, so much. It tortures me and I hate that I can't breathe. I hate that it feels like my head is muffled and someone is suffocating me. I hate how I care and then I don't care, but I do care. I hate how people say different things, and it gets me confused, it gets me lost, and I feel sick.

I wander again, in search for answers, in search for truth, in search for someone who I can trust who will lead the way and tell me what is good and what is right and how I can be noble too. How I can behave and have confidence in what I do. Because it gets to me, how people behave and show themselves. I see it, and I get sick inside because I don't know who I am then, and I don't know what I'm living for. And I get scared, and I get timid and I do stupid things.

I'm sorry if this bothers you. How is control a good or bad thing? Can you help me? Can you really be there for me to the end? I am yearning for someone to be there, to love me, and to want to make me the best I can be. I don't know what I want, I hate my chains, the lies he tell. It sickens my whole soul. It crumbles, quakes, and quivers like a spindle of web that is delicate and being bossed around by the wind that is taunting and demeaning and scary and uncontrollable, and it engulfs me, telling me what to do, who am I, I am this. Yes! I am this. Please, please accept this and I will live on. To question, to wander, to nullify, to exactify, to petrify myself with loss and hurt and pain and a never-ending flow of criticism and hurt and judgement and stabs of deathly curiosity and you know it. You know that I will fall, I will crash and burn, but I will grow up again through and through, wearied in the rubble and happy at once but completely sad the next and it will go on and on and on. Can you accept this.

Can you accept the cycle, the continuum, the volcanoes, and the ashes, the burn, the toil, the torment, the tug, the war. Can you accept this.