Why do I make myself feel

unwanted, hated, untouchable, disgusting?

Nobody else does that to me; I do it to myself. Because people shouldn’t want me, should hate me… But when they love me anyway, shouldn’t I give them that credit? Let them help me, when that makes them happy?

Maybe if I were less selfish. I’d deserve it enough to be able to believe it.

Why do I make myself feel

unwanted, hated, untouchable, disgusting?

Nobody else does that to me; I do it to myself. Because people shouldn’t want me, should hate me… But when they love me anyway, shouldn’t I give them that credit? Let them help me, when that makes them happy?

Maybe if I were less selfish. I’d deserve it enough to be able to believe it.

Burning shivers and silent screams. Contradictions of my mind and body and surroundings that are some interrelated disconnected cyclical chaos.

See? That was ridiculously wordy and made no sense. But it’s still exactly straight the words from my head.

Writing lately, that’s what I’ve learned. It’s that when I let my pen exactly write my thoughts without clarifying or translating to real people phrases and expressions, they come out right somehow, but still fundamentally...