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Monday, November 30, 2009


Is there something wrong with me? Am I in some way flawed, in such a way that I myself cannot see it, cannot recognise it, cannot address it?? FUCK. I can't handle rejection. I just fucking can't anymore.
"I love you"... "I don't love you anymore."
"I like you,"..."I was just using you."
"I was just using you."(repeat)
"I love you!"... "I did love you, but it faded away into abyss."
"I fucked up."
I'm one big fucking mistake. One strange witty awkward blonde haired brown eyed mistake. USE ME! I MAY AS WELL TATTOO IT ON MY FOREHEAD. Use me, use me, use me, use me, use me. Just use me, don't bother loving me, don't bother even feeling anything but animal lust. Use me. Please, save me the energy of hoping that this time might be something worthwhile. Save me the effort of thinking you might actually care about me as something other than B cups and shapely hips. Don't lead me to believe that you actually care enough not to just use me, that you actually care how I feel at all, how I will feel when you throw me away. I'm used to it. I really am. I'm so used to it in fact, that I can honestly and genuinely say that I'm acclimated to the pain. Use me so I can commiserate over whether or not to leave, for the sake of just being held, and then laugh at my anger. My genuine and justified anger, just laugh at it, because goddamn I must be cute when I'm angry. Pouted lips and hair all over the place, fingers fumbling impatiently at the buttons of my jacket, lace bra stuffed into pocket. Laugh. Please laugh. Remind me that I shouldn't have let myself feel. Remind me that I shouldn't have cared at all.
Did I do something wrong? Was it something I did, something I said? Something I always do, always say? Don't be so goddamned nice about it. Just say it. Say you don't care. Say you just used me. Own up to it. Own it. I didn't initiate it, you fucking did. I'm glad you stopped it when you did, but you shouldn't have done it at all. Nothing. If you felt nothing, you should have done NOTHING. I have feelings. I'm not just some walking pair of breasts, I swear, I'm really not. I don't give myself without prior deliberation. Is there something wrong with me? Am I not pretty enough? Not smart enough? Not skinny enough? Too weird? Too awkward? What? I don't know. Fuck, I don't know. All I know is that this hurts. This hurts, and I don't want to feel this anymore. I just want to be held. I just want a boy to want something from me that doesn't immediately entail the contents of my bra. Is that so much to ask? For a boy to care, to genuinely care and want the best for me as I do for them?
I'm just a mistake. You fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked up. I'm a mistake. I was a mistake. I am a mistake.

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