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The truth is I want it to envelop me. I want it to surround me so closely nothing else is in my outfield of vision.
“That’s the victim in you talking”, can it always be the victim in me talking? I’d rather people feel constantly sorry for me or just find me repulsively pathetic than expect something greater of me or ridicule me for not being stronger on their time stamp of expectation. Check out is not at seventeen o’ clock.
I can hardly divulge the truth to myself, it’s so far into repression. Yet timed by the self-seeking clocks of others, tick tick ticking away, I’m expected to have already moved on with the idea of addressing it positively absurd. All that I have said is a mere fragment of what all has candidly occurred, especially when I cannot even call to mind the earliest events, estimated to have been endured some fifteen years ago.
If all I felt was the pain of everything, life would be pleasantly bearable and on a comforting schedule. I’ve felt it before, and I was utterly on top of the world by the comfort of blood in the morning and night. That memory of me seems so lucky, so unbothered. I am jealous of its freedom to recoil.
My destroyer is the confusion of sometimes being happy and sometimes being sad, by the grip of myself and by the beating of others. Once a smile is witnessed, smiles of sunshine are expected thereafter, mimicking of a child’s delight to be alive. One grin must equate into being positively thrilled to be repulsed by the sounds of mouths.
My pseudo-smiles are undetectable, for I am a spectacular performer of falsities. My over-conscience derives from my birth mother’s sociopathy, or so I’d like to believe. It is comforting to imagine it so. Conceptually, it makes ironic, spectral sense, so why can it not be true?
She cries on whim because she feels nothing, I smile on whim because I feel too much. I hate having been born with predetermined behavioral patterns.
I am so cold and so numb, shivering too much to even cry. I want to badly, I feel there’s regularly clarity in the aftermath of crying. I can’t even focus on one horrible thing to concentrate long enough to cry, how problematic/pathetic is that?
Life wasn’t supposed to “end up” like this, even though my forever is nigh. How do I exist as an idea when I haven’t even existed as a person to so many people that should have recognized me above all others?
Perhaps because victimizing human’s smell a victim like a shark does blood, I have been disrespected to an extreme degree-- how dare you touch my body or tell me I’m worthless of your time or sight. How dare you tell me I need to love and forgive my “mother” who didn’t even protect me when I couldn’t have used her most, who should be grateful of me for even giving her pathetic existence a purpose she didn’t fulfill. Note how these are not questions. I do not question your mirroring self-hate you’ve reflected upon me in hopes of burning a dry weed. I would much rather be the strongest weed instead of the weakest flower.
My unenthusiastic carrier knew I was being repeatedly molested, and still she sneered in the direction of her computer monitor instead. I’ll let you take that in for a moment so you can ctrl+alt+del all the fabrication you have stitched into her tell-all tracked arms. (As if.)
She made fun of me and blamed me, whenever she could tear herself away from cheating on our “family” (families don’t torture their children, that’s why my brother grew up with family and I did not). She watched me trail behind my abuser to room and into my closet, without even the faintest glance of care in my undesired direction. (Why couldn’t she have been excited for abortion instead of hating me?)
I submitted to sexual acts because my family’s lives were threatened, if I didn’t cooperate they would kill them all with guns, hands, and gangs, and sometimes I was told I’d have to bear witness. Their deaths would leave me unprotected, and then I would really be forced to obey. So if you have anything to say at all about that in her defense, I don’t even care what it is, just shut your fucking mouth before it gapes open and spills out bullshit, because you’re dead to me, and you might as well “kill yourself”* because you’re “already dead”.
*Discredit yourself right now, take me off your walls and websites and completely disband from my life, follow through with your act of abandonment because I cannot be half-orphaned forever.
I recommend avoiding the mistake of opposing anything I feel or say based on factual events when you know absolutely nothing about my past, how I perceive my life, or who I’ve reluctantly become. No one knows, hardly even me, and although it unfortunately has to be said, none of yours matter to me either as of yet, or never will. If you care enough to shove lies down my throat, you care enough to keep me in your life, so you better try if you want me to be here. Start believing in me not caring about your eternal absence or presence.
My plan was not to be a godless self-loathing individual who cannot even look at herself in the mirror without abhorrence. Just a glimpse and already I feels pangs of desire to mutilate every patch of skin I see. The outside might as well be as ugly as the inside, no matter what you think exists within.
The blueprint didn’t detail in the hating of my drug-addicted family performing and pursing incestual pedophilia, among other humanly criminal acts. It wasn’t part of the path most religions promote we’re stuck on with no alternative to being forced to follow. (Things do not happen for a reason, you weak moron.) If I ever find that to be scientifically the case, good bye Sino.
In a sick way, it’s probably good I don’t submit to believing such bullshit. On that note, be appreciative the hobby of believing in sky-gods hasn’t yet struck me with the disability to reason reality.
