alecto - your little bluejay (pollytrance) wrote,
alecto - your little bluejay

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I Have Worked Out Every Small Detail...

I really fucking hate my life.

I hate the fact that aesthetically, I am ugly as sin. I hate that on the inside, my heart is cold and I am bitter. I hate that the people who say they care for me really don't at all, they just use me as a constant. I hate being a constant, and even more I hate change. I hate that I hate so many things. I hate that I don't have the courage to go after the things I want, and then watch them slip away to other people who aren't deserving. I hate that everyone and their mother is always doing some sort of drugs. I hate that I have no faith. I hate being fucking ugly. I hate how boys never look at me, and the ones that do are scumbag assholes only looking to fuck and chuck.

I hate that I am too lazy to write all of this out in a paper journal and someone might see it, and the true ugliness of my insides will be revealed. I hate being miserable, and being the mother figure. I utterly loathe bridge toll.

I hate crying because I know that the things I want will never materialise because I'm just not good enough. I hate that I am so available that everyone looks past me.

YOU KNOW IT'S TRUE. No one ever goes for what's right in front of their face. A girl on my friends list said she didn't want to buy a certain lamb album because it was so readily available. No one wants something that's so easy to have, cos they figure there must be something wrong with it, or that it's not special.

I'm like that thing you walk into the other room to get, and then get to the room and forget what you wanted. I hate being the character in the background.

I want someone to please look at me and love me, and not in the parental way. In the new friend way, in the we're-in-seventh-grade-and-we-pass-notes-in-study-hall kind of way maybe?

I feel unloved, unseen and unappreciated by everyone except my parents, him, her, her, and him.

I want the thrill of new experience without ever having to leave, I want to stare up at the cottage cheese on the ceiling, I want to be back where I was in those pictures when I was two years old, and a blonde, and my dad is holding me and he doesn't have any gray hair, when I knew love and gratitude and not pain. When someone was excited about me simply because I existed, not because they could fuck me or get money from me or have me drive them around.

I don't feel like anyone would care if I was dead and gone, they'd only be sad for themselves, because no one would be there to listen when they needed it.

"Katie's gone?" They'd say. "That's a shame. She was supposed to drive me somewhere next week."

"Oh, the girl with the coloured hair kicked the bucket? That sucks. I used to call her when I'd get depressed and she'd listen to me, and I'd feel so much better. Now I have to use the teen line again."

There's not much time left until I am all used up, nothing left but dust blowing away in the harsh summer wind.

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