Vomiting hurts my throat
By Angelfeather

You know, I really hate myself half the time. I just wanna curl up in a ball and. disappear, let the darkness surrounding me overtake, to let it win. Life always seems to put me in the backseat, always second best, never first, the one thing I ever wanted. But no, I must stifle the sobs and sniffles that come crashing out of my body, no one can hear that I feel sadness, sorrow, God, that's just the same damn thing. I can't differentiate anything, I can't hide anymore, but even in the supposed security of bedroom, I'm not truly free. I think I lost it all, squandered away a fortune for immortality that was never received. I can't sit in the backseat, but the child-lock is on. A child-lock, something so. confining, a canary's birdcage for a turkey vulture, trapped, trapped.

What's happening? Are you here to save me or just around for the show? Ha, I'm an adrenaline junkie, hungry for the taste of a rush of blood to the head, or anywhere else for that matter. I'm delirious, I know. No wait, no, not the jacket again. An allegory for my immediate removal from the spotlight, the place I feel most welcome. I'm always tossed in a corner, an unwanted rag doll, too 'uncool' to be around. How many times have I been put down, tossed around, taken for a fool, not spoken to, not called upon, by so-called perchance left out or just downright not given what I feel deserved? Give me fifty pairs of hands and I still couldn't count on my strengthened fingers. Good girls get nowhere, neither do bad ones, only the perfect, which I am not.

And at that though, I can't control it anymore, I just breakdown, smashed into even more microscopic pieces than I am in. My stomach seizes, my eyes shut hard, I bit my lip as the piercing noise rips through my fragile mind, it's a scream of pure, of pure, no. Of pure, I can't find the word, it's not anger, not really depression, just no. The thought that I just can't do it, be the best and get out of the shadow of the tens and thousands. I can't sit here and do nothing but I'll always be stuck in the B team unless I quit, no matter how hard I try to make A. But Life isn't fair, nope, not at all. The rest of the tens and thousands easily get want they want, just flash a little skin. I can't do that 'cause I'm covered in burns. I feel sick from the dregs that the tens and thousands nourish me with, woozy as I try to look through my tear-stained eyes. I have to sit and watch as every other friggin' person takes what I want and that, in a very subtle way, need. The exotic are only taken advantage of, I fit in there. I'm every outcast, Piggy, that kid sitting in the second row, third from left, and I have to congratulate everyone else while I break inside. I just guess, I'm not good enough, not smart enough, not pretty enough, not enough of anything, just give me the prize for the kid most lacking of anything, but, wait for it, I'm trapped at average, I'M NOT AVERAGE! I just want someone to notice. I guess that's why I write it all down, try to get rid of the excess baggage. It works pretty darn good.

I want you to know, my friend, foe, or person who happens to pick this up, that all I want is to be famous, I don't have to have money, no, just fame and recognition. That's my Aries persona shining through. By the way, I get talked about behind my back, and hear it, am supposed to have a crush on about ten guys, am the most ignorant, stuck-up little rich bitch. How's that for growing up!